


Tremble & Depart

by DarkoftheMoon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Investigations, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Mutual Pining, Potions, Slow Burn, Spooky House Investigation, cursebreaker Hermione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 65,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27903571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkoftheMoon/pseuds/DarkoftheMoon
Summary: Draco Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Disposable.Life on probation at the Ministry meant keeping his head down and his mouth shut. On his first field assignment he’s tasked with investigating an abandoned Death Eater manor hiding more than a few secrets in its walls.Stuck with the only witch who agreed to work with him.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 331
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

There was a time when cruelty had come easily to him. When saying the very worst thing rested at the tip of his tongue, ready to strike without hesitating. There was a time when he reveled in it, smiling smugly after a particularly barbed insult hit its mark. A time when he wouldn’t think about it days or even hours later. It was like releasing a breath. There until it was gone.

Now, though, it was like a little piece of Draco Malfoy broke off with each cruel remark. A piece that was a part of him as much as whoever was on the receiving end of his wickedness. It made him quieter. More thoughtful. And particularly more vulnerable if he’d forgotten to occlude that day, which was why, after the glares and stares that followed him most mornings turned into whispered jeers, he was feeling a bit like his old self. Poised to snap at whatever unsuspecting fool crossed his path first.

There had been another write-up in the _Prophet_. This time about the longterm effects of the cruciatus. Before the Dark Lord’s rise and fall it hadn’t been studied extensively. Unforgivable curses were unforgivable for a reason. Their use was rare. But now there were willing wizards and witches who had been tortured and wanted to understand why their joints hurt or what was causing their migraines. The article mentioned Longbottom’s parents. With a picture of an infant Neville cradled in their arms. Detailed the expense of their neurological damage. At the hands of a witch who bore the same mark as him and shared his blood.

It gave them all a reason to continue to hate him and for him to hate himself. So as he reached his desk that morning he had already run through his long list of failures and misdeeds at least twice. It helped him prepare for the whispers of _Should be in Azkaban_ and _Death Eater_ and perhaps his favorite, _You’ll get what’s coming to you_. It was such a thing he would have said as a thirteen year old. Hilariously lazy.

Draco never slouched. Posture was something his father enforced from an early age, rapping his knuckles with his wand if he slumped at the dinner table. Rigid, upright, shoulders back. Chin tilted down in submission when in front of superiors. Nose angled upwards in the presence of those beneath them.

Granger clearly never had such training. Her shoulders, her entire torso, it seemed, was forever hunched over a piece of parchment or curled around a book. When she walked it was usually weighed down by those books. But when she stood defiant, with hands on hips and nose in the air, she was truly in charge. In the halls of the Ministry she vacillated between the two.

Today she had an armful and a half of stacked parchment and books. A quill behind her ear. Spots of ink on her face and hands. Like she didn’t notice. Somehow couldn’t feel it on her skin.

Most days he would have kept his eyes down and avoided her. Avoided anyone he knew from school. But today wasn’t most days, apparently. Sensible shoes, knee-length skirt, lumpy jumper. Hair not as bushy as years past but still wild. She dressed like she was far older than their twenty-one years. As if by appearing to be older she could climb the ranks to Minister faster. She was a junior cursebreaker, so she was often in and out of the offices in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to consult on various cases.

He knew the sound of her ugly shoes on the wood floor. Could sense her passing his desk. If he looked up, she was always looking somewhere else — at the floor or a piece of parchment in her hand. Not that he had wanted to catch her eye. More often than not she was with Potter or Weasley or both. As if nothing had changed. The golden trio, together forever. Saving the wizarding world one unfair advantage at a time.

Her shoes clacked, accompanied by someone with a loud tread, and then the footsteps stopped close enough that he had to look up to see why.A wizard he didn’t recognized was smiling at her, flirting, really, over her stack of books. If he’d been a gentleman he would have offered to help carry them.

“I’m sure you’ve already read it, but there’s a new treatise on werewolf rights and…”

Draco listened to him ramble on, annoyed at the endless chatter taking place in front of his desk. He had work to do, and couldn’t this idiot see that she was carrying heavy books and shifting her weight from foot to foot? Obviously she had better places to be. Wasn’t interested in this drabble. So he opened his cursed mouth.

“I’m sure she’s not only read it but left smudged notes in the margins,” he said. “You’ll have to think of something else to impress her with. Better luck next time.”

“The junior Malfoy, isn’t it?” The other wizard said. Granger glanced over at him then back to her companion.

“Sorry, I don’t think I know you. Maintenance department?” Fucking stupid retort. Some of the only people worth talking to at the Ministry were in that department. Why had he said it?

“Just as charming as they say. How often has someone broken your nose? I know Hermione here’s left you bruised and bloody before but maybe you need a reminder—”

“Charlie,” Granger said, and it was the familiar way she said it that made him reassess her companion. The red hair. Fresh burn marks and old scars on his forearms. One of the Weasley brood, clearly. The one who worked with dragons. Older than them by a few years. A Hogwarts quidditch legend.

“Whatever else you have to say, Weasley, I don’t care. Take your discussion elsewhere,” Draco said, then made a show of flicking his quill and returning to his work. Writing a report on exploding toilets at Royal Albert Hall. The prestige of his job a forever delight.

“Looks like you’re busy doing my little brother’s paperwork for him. How nice that the department takes pity on the unemployable.”

“Do remind me the last time your little brother accomplished anything without riding someone else’s coat tails and then we can talk about pity.”

“Listen, you arrogant—”

“It’s fine, Charlie, we’re leaving,” she said, shifting the books in her arms. Some of her parchment fell to the floor and the Weasley stooped to collect it. “Don’t pay attention to him.”

“Don’t worry, Hermione, I can handle a smarmy bastard on my own.”

“Piss off, Weasley. Plenty of other places in this building for you to flex your muscles to impress whatever witch walks by,” Draco said, his quill hovering over the parchment. Leaving little spots of ink he’d have to remove later.

“Unlike some, it doesn’t take much effort on my part,” Weasley said, crossing his arms. A weak intimidation tactic that made Draco laugh and shake his head. Granger shifted her books again, and he bit the inside of his cheek to refrain from saying something about it. But then she did.

“Honestly, it’s like being with a bunch of fourth years,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Granger, you do know they stop giving marks after you leave school. No need to break your back with all those books. Everyone’s aware you’re the Head Swot without a bunch of props.”

He regretted it the instant he saw the flash of hurt on her face. A piece of him fractured off. Studying in the Slytherin common room. Feverishly reading and rereading the passage about grindylows for Professor Lupin’s class when Marcus Flint and a few of the other older Slytherins returned from whatever trouble they were causing in the corridors after hours.

_Reading again, Draco? Why you think you have to study is beyond me. Can’t you just get dear old dad to buy your good marks? He buys you everything else._

“Some of us need books for our jobs, Malfoy. Not everything is for show,” she replied, her eyes were narrowed and she made a pointed glance at the pin in his tie. A family heirloom. Some emerald he’d found in the vault, wrapped in silver. Nestled in the dimple of his black silk tie.

And then they were gone. Striding away with the echo of her clacking shoes. One last nasty look from the Weasley over his shoulder.

For several minutes Draco stared at his report, trying to remember his line of thought. All he could hear was the sound of her shoes. The tone of her voice. Just how true that simple statement was.

He sent Theo an owl — _Drinks. Diagon 6pm._ The first few months after the war, after house arrest and a trial, he couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to. The tattoo on his forearm prevented it. If he tried, restaurants were booked. Pubs were full. Shops would turn him away, even when he offered to pay double. There were no laws about reform, only suggestions. Most pubs still lacked refinement but they weren’t allowed to refuse service anymore. Not that he reported it when he was refused.

When he’d finally finished writing his report a few hours later he cleared his already immaculate desk, sending off memos and moving discarded parchment to the waste basket. He liked to leave his workspace empty at the end of the day. It seemed like a rational thing to do. His presence there was conditional. His job probational. Working for the Ministry had always ranked low on his career aspiration list. For most of his childhood the only thing he wanted to do was play quidditch. At school he developed an aptitude for potions. But no one wanted a former Death Eater as an apprentice. So instead he toiled away, assisting the aurors of the DMLE with the promise that, perhaps someday, he might move up from his lowly paperwork and occasional dark object assessments accompanied by multiple aurors should he be _tempted_. He’d excelled in trainings — both physical and written. Every year he was required to complete the tests and every year he earned top marks. And yet here he was, in a small desk. With an emerald fucking tie pin.

_Not everything is for show_.

Indeed.

Theo met him at the corner of Diagon and Knockturn, right outside his flat. He pulled out a gilded pocket watch and shook his head. “Three minutes late. Abysmal.”

“You’ll recover,” Draco replied, keeping his steps quick as they twisted down the street. It was crowded, and he considered suggesting they just go back to Theo’s flat with a bottle. But Theo liked to observe the room at the bar. Which of the patrons cast stones at them and which ones avoided them altogether. To him it was all a game. And neither of them ever won.

The Leaky Cauldron was generally off-limits because of the familiar crowd. But the Scroll & Raven on the outskirts of Diagon was usually open to them. The bartender was an old woman named Oona who didn’t so much as say hello when they walked in and took their usual seats at the booth furthest from the door.

“How’s the slog today?” Theo asked, stretching his arms over the backrest. He tapped his fingers — an old habit his father failed to snuff out — waiting for their drinks to appear.

“Intolerable. Robards still won’t give me much to do beyond useless paperwork and filing. It’s a fucking joke,” Draco said, snatching his glass of Ogden’s the moment it arrived. He drained it in a single gulp and signaled to Oona for another. Theo quirked a brow and followed suit.

“Did you get a paper cut?”

“Did I— no?”

“Oh, sorry, just assumed since you’re knocking back the firewhiskey like a sixth year that your horrid job filing paperwork must have done something terrible to you,” Theo said. He chuckled to himself, forever pleased with his own wit. “My mistake.”

“You ever think that it’s your company that drives me to drink?”

“I happen to know that you adore my company.”

Draco sighed. “Knew I would be better off buying my own bottle and going home.”

“Ah, but then you’d have no one to complain to. So what is it?”

The bar was nearly empty but he still glanced around, looking for any familiar faces who might eavesdrop. There was a hag in the corner, sipping gillywater. A few goblins whispering near the door.

“Nothing, really. One of the Weasleys came through my department. Sight of them always ruins my day, you know that.” Draco sipped his second drink, warmed by the first.

_Not everything is for show_.

“Not the fit sister then?” Theo asked. “Shame.”

Draco changed the subject. “What misery did you bestow on the world today?”

Theo tapped his fingers against the back of the booth. Drumming from his little finger to his forefinger and back again. “Had a lovely little meeting with some of your auror pals actually.”

They’d both grown used to the endless interviews and inspections and “We’re just here to follow up” knocks on the door. Three years of it.

“And?”

“And it appears my dear father has finally admitted to hiding something at the estate. Wanted to know how to access it. Robards and Potter and some quiet wanker I can’t remember the name of.”

Theo’s father was much older than most of their parents. Married three times. Widower two times. Father one time. Theo’s mother had died in childbirth. Theodore Nott, Sr., quickly remarried and left his son to be raised by house elves in a separate wing of the estate. While he conducted “business” from the other. Occasionally wandering to Theo’s rooms to pick a fight. The day he turned seventeen and came into a large portion of his inheritance, Theo purchased a flat and moved out. The estate became a Death Eater holding after that.

“They want you to help them?” Draco asked. He knew what the house meant for Theo — bruises and hurled curses. Dark magic dripping from the walls. Before the Dark Lord had taken over Malfoy Manor, Theo had spent more time there than his own house. On breaks from Hogwarts they would get into petty bouts of trouble together until Draco’s mother had enough. She’d indulge them much longer than his father would.

“I told them everything I know. Not much else I can do for them,” Theo replied.

They sipped their drinks and Draco tipped his glass, contemplating the whiskey for a moment. Tilting it back and forth in the cloudy tumbler. “He say what he hid there?”

“Number of things. Experimental potions seemed to be the main entity Robards was concerned about. A few cursed objects they’ll want to stabilize. Rare books to take for the Ministry’s libraries. Hey,” he said, brightening, “do me a favor and let them know I left a couple Muggle magazines under my bed. I’d like them back.”

Draco scoffed. “That will be a top priority for Potter, at the very least.”

As the hour dwindled they talked about upcoming quidditch matches and the latest gossip from the Greengrass sisters and their other classmates. The ones who still spoke to them, at least. More patrons filtered into the pub. A few taking the energy to narrow their eyes at them. Draco scowled and finished his third drink.

It was always the same face leveled at him. Like at any moment he would declare himself an eternal servant of the Dark Lord, instead of a 21-year-old with a mild drinking problem and growing anxiety. He left a galleon on the table, paying for their drinks and a rather large gratuity. Theo lit up a smoke and Draco let himself enjoy the plumes before they dissipated. He’d never taken up the habit himself but something about the proximity of it soothed him, though he wasn’t thrilled at the way the smell clung to his hair and clothes after he’d been around Theo. After a few minutes he waved goodbye and started walking to the apparition point. He had to pass the busier end of Diagon, getting a good look at the crowd at the Leaky Cauldron.

Standing in the shadows beside it was Granger and the older Weasley from earlier. He was having a smoke and she appeared to be lecturing him about it. The door opened and Potter joined them, laughing. The Weasley stubbed the cigarette out in the bricks, then vanished it. For a moment Draco watched him lean closer to Granger, whispering in her ear.

He kept walking until he reached an apothecary that was still open, bought a bottle, then headed to the apparition point. Before he apparated he chugged some pepper up potion. If he splinched himself on a random Tuesday, he’d be really put out.

Part of his probation required him to live near an auror. Someone who could monitor his comings and goings with special wards on his living quarters. Dawlish was middle-aged and clearly hated being reduced to such a task. He mostly left Draco alone. It was a Muggle neighborhood, so he wasn’t allowed to apparate directly into his flat. Instead he had to jump to another apparition point and then walk several blocks in the November chill. Stopping at the corner store for a pick and mix. Hands in the pockets of his Muggle pea coat. A tight grip on his wand until he had climbed the stairs, opened his wards, and reset them once the door was locked and he could breathe again.

The flat was small and mostly empty. It seemed useless to have much furniture. It wasn’t as if he did any entertaining besides Theo for the occasional drink. He ate his pathetic dinner, poured a glass of firewhiskey, and grimaced. It was barely eight. Occlumency was harder when he’d been drinking. Most nights he couldn’t fall asleep until well into the wee hours of the morning. He needed sleep tonight. Needed to turn his brain off entirely. To silence the voices and the stares and the replayed visions of the day the week the month the last five fucking years. Instead of finishing his whiskey he grabbed his last vial of dreamless sleep from the cupboard.

_Not everything is for show_.

He drained it and let the peppermint flavored potion take him to oblivion.

* * *

There were three blissful days without incident. Three days where he’d centered his thoughts and hid his fears and anxieties away behind layers of walls in his mind. Three days of being left alone before he was summoned to the Head Auror’s office with a vague note. He made sure his desk was clear before he went.

John Dawlish yawned, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Smacking his lips together. He looked about as bored as a teenaged mandrake. And he startled awake when Head Auror Gawain Robards slapped a folder down onto the table in front of them.

“We want you to lead the investigation of the Nott estate,” Robards said. Draco glanced at Dawlish, expecting him to ask questions. When he didn’t, Robards cleared his throat, gaining both of their attention. “Malfoy, this is your chance to prove that you can handle being out from behind your desk.”

_What the fuck_? He must have said it aloud because Robards leveled an icy glare at him. “Sorry, sir, just caught off guard. You want _me_ to lead? Not Dawlish?”

“Dawlish has given you quite the glowing review for the last year. Excellent marks on your training aptitude tests and quick reflexes with the field modules. You’re consistent with your paperwork and you follow instruction.”

That was debatable. “How will this work? Will there be a team or—”

“You’re familiar with the Nott family, aren’t you?”

“Theo and I grew up together. Our fathers… well, you bloody know they worked together. So yes, you could say I’m familiar.”

“We’ll need you to get as detailed information on the layout of the estate as you can. Nott Sr. has been cooperative to an extent, but when it comes to the layout of the house he’s always vague.”

“How so?”

“Oh, he’ll say, _changes with the day_ or _That depends on who opens the door_. We’d rather not have to rely on his information when we can. You’re close with his son, that will help the case.”

He remembered what Theo had said about it earlier in the week. What his father had divulged. “What exactly am I looking for?”

“Your standard Death Eater menu — dark objects, cursed objects, basilisk in the basement,” Dawlish said, laughing at his own stupid joke.

“Right,” Draco, flicked his eyes over him with distaste. “Nott Sr. was very skilled with potions. He provided the Dark Lord with anything he needed brewed.”

“That’s what he has told us, that there are experimental potions somewhere in the estate. He also alluded to something that was to be deployed upon You-Know-Who’s death. Do you know about this?”

Draco shook his head. “The Dark Lord always spoke as though he’d live forever.”

“Apparently not all of his followers thought that would happen. They wanted to ensure that his…progress continued. We believe this potion to be dangerous to Muggles and Muggleborns, based on what little information we were able to extract from him and our current intelligence.”

Extract. With Veritaserum, likely. Though he wasn’t sure that the Ministry was above torture, especially for someone convicted on heinous crimes. Nott Sr. had performed the killing curse on more than one occasion. Though he had an appeal within the next year, Draco doubted he would be given a lighter sentence. This bit of cooperation was his last resort.

“You received top marks in potions,” Robards said. Draco nodded. “Highest N.E.W.T score we’ve seen.”

There was no way he had a better score than Granger but he did believe that he at least excelled compared to his other classmates.

“Yes, I always had an interest in it. Professor Snape was a good teacher.” Slughorn was passable.

“This is why I want you on this case, Malfoy.”

“And who else will I be working with? I’m not exactly the favorite in the department.” In the country. Perhaps on the entire bloody continent.

“No, you’re not.” Robards laughed to himself. “You know the rules. No one goes alone; you’ll need a partner.”

“And who’s the lucky Auror?”

“Actually, you’ll be paired with a cursebreaker. The likelihood that there are cursed objects throughout the estate is high. There’s also the chance that certain rooms themselves are cursed. We want you to be prepared.”

One of the Weasleys was a cursebreaker, but he worked for Gringotts. Or he had before the war. There’d been no reason for him to know much about that department beyond their occasional presence on his floor.

“So a lucky cursebreaker then. Who’s assigned to me?”

“Believe it or not we had a volunteer. She’s a junior cursebreaker but very bright, and Potter says she could have been an Auror herself.”

A volunteer because no one else would want to work with him. Brightest witch of her age, likely. There was only one person who fit that description. One person who seemed to put what was right over everything else.

“Granger volunteered?”

Robards glanced at his watch. “She’ll arrive any moment and we can go over what we know.”

Draco hadn’t seen her since Tuesday. When he’d snapped at her. But her words still rattled through his brain. Of course she’d volunteer — as a bonus she got to nanny him. Put him in his metaphorical place.

Right on time, she knocked on the door and Robards let her in.

“I think that’s all you need me for,” said Dawlish. He gave a lazy wave. “Nice to see you, Miss Granger.”

She wore her same practical shoes and dowdy attire. “Auror Robards,” she said, tentatively pulling the chair formerly occupied by Dawlish. Sitting at the very edge of it, hands in a nervous bundle on her lap. As if she’d have to flee at any moment. Or answer a question, hand high in the air.

“You two were in the same year at Hogwarts?” Robards made an attempt at smalltalk that neither Draco nor Granger was thrilled about. They both nodded when required and provided basic responses to his questions about their favorite classes and professors. Where they spent their summers. Bloody stupid.

“Right. We don’t have much information, but you should both read through the file that we do have. Set up a meeting with your friend Theo. You might want to talk with some of the other Aurors, get some advice.”

Draco stared at the folder. _Theodore James Nott, Sr._ , it said in large black letters. _Death Eater_. _High rank, part of You-Know-Who’s inner circle_. Even the aurors hadn’t stopped using his many nicknames instead of the regal one he bestowed upon himself. But it wasn’t that detail that snagged his interest. It was the folder itself. Thin. Labeled like he labeled his own paperwork. And he wondered what the folder for Draco Malfoy had written on its front. _Draco Lucius Malfoy. Death Eater. Disposable_. There would probably only be a single page inside. Pathetic. Listing all the things he was told to do but failed to do. The punishments he’d received. The ones he was ordered to bestow on others.

He looked at Granger out of the corner of his eye. She’d pulled the files from the folder and began to flip through them. Large brown eyes reading quickly. She would devour entire textbooks in the library in a single evening. Leaning in her chair and taking up the nicest table at the back, away from the other study areas. Hoarding the books he needed to write his own essays. Jumping a little in her seat if she noticed him.

“As a precaution, you’ll be given a portkey to be used in an emergency. Should there be anything unexpected at the house or if one of you is injured, it will take you straight to the field office in Dover,” Robards explained.

Draco nodded. It had been years since he’d been allowed to travel far without permission. Local apparition was about all that anyone on probation was afforded. Granger continued to absorb the information in front of her.

“Your main objective is the retrieval of a potion that Mr. Nott invented,” Robards said.

“What do we know about the potion?” Draco asked, knowing the answer from their earlier discussion. He asked instead for his new partner’s benefit.

“As he describes it, it’s a poison that only affects Muggleborns,” Robards flicked his eyes to Granger. “He was not involved in its distribution, so we’ve been unable to trace it to its source. However, he claims that we can find the potion in his manor. From there we can begin to work on an antidote and get it into the hands of every witch and wizard in Britain.”

“You say you’re unable to trace its source. That makes it sound as though this potion has already been released, somehow.” Granger said, sat rigid in her chair with the folder on her lap.

“And thus the need for expediency. Take the next few days to prepare yourselves but try to move quickly. We’ve already had a few admissions to St. Mungo’s and I’d like to avoid any more,” Robards said. He glanced at the clock on his wall. “My apologies but I have another meeting. I’ll leave you to discuss and make your plans. If you need me, you know how to reach me.”

They all stood and Draco realized what he had to do now just as Granger turned to face him.

“We can go to my office,” she said, gathering the contents of the folder and sweeping from the room. He followed her clunky steps to the lifts, leaving some space between them.

“I think it’s probably best if we do some research first. And I can talk with Harry about some of his tips for investigating a Death Eater hideout—”

Draco snorted.

“What?”

“You do realize that I grew up going to most of these _Death Eater hideouts_ and there’s really not much Potter can tell you about them that I don’t already know.”

She held the folder over her chest, arms crossed. “Right. Yes, I suppose you would.”

The lift arrived and he held the door as she boarded it. As they rode down to her floor he tried to think of something useful to share but nothing came to mind.

“You’re friends with his son?” Granger asked.

“Yes.”

“Could you schedule a meeting with him to go over the layout of the house? And anything else he can tell us? I’d rather not have to pull an Auror in for that meeting. Maybe something more casual…I don’t want to scare him or—”

“You can’t really scare Theo, Granger. He’s not some naive sot. Son of a Death Eater, remember?”

She sighed, pushing past him when the lift stopped. He followed her to her cramped office. There were stacks of paper everywhere. Some were weighted down by what he assumed were formerly cursed objects. On one wall was a large calendar with her diary entries listed in blue ink. A small framed portrait of the Golden Trio. A Muggle photograph of her with her parents, at least a decade old. Her teeth were still overly large and hair a tangle.

When she caught him looking at her things she cleared her throat. “Shall we begin then?”

For the next two hours they discussed strategy and he mostly listened while Granger listed the types of curses they might encounter and what books she thought they should review. When someone knocked on her door, wondering why she wasn’t in a meeting, she jumped and excused herself. Leaving him in a jumbled daze in the guest chair in her office. He took one last look and returned to his desk, wondering what in the hell he was going to do.

With a few flicks of his wand he sent memos to the Ministry archive requesting some of the books Granger had mentioned and one to Theo, who replied with a lewd drawing of a Veela. The archivist replied that all of those titles had already been requested. So he wrote to his mother to request copies from the Manor’s library.

Theo met him at the Scroll & Raven after work, positively gleeful at Draco’s assignment.

“Just think, if you don’t botch it, you could be an Auror like Potter. Imagine if they made you partners. Personally, I can see it. There’s something beneath all that animosity—”

“Shut it,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “This is clearly conditional. And you know I don’t want to actually be an Auror.”

“Looks like you’re not the only Ministry employee in need of a drink this evening,” Theo said, nudging his chin to the direction over Draco’s shoulder. When he turned and saw her curly hair his stomach turned. Once again she was with Charlie Weasley. Through some subtle investigating and ill-advised eavesdropping on the more gossipy witches in line at the café he’d learned that the elder Weasley brother was assisting the Ministry with some adolescent dragons that had been confiscated from a traveling magizoo. And he was single.

“You do know if anything happens to her they’ll blame you,” Theo said. It was matter-of-fact. Practical. And accurate.

Across the bar he watched Granger and her new Weasley. Laughing together over pints of butterbeer. Her brown curls cascading down her back. Cheeks pink from the alcohol and the company. Eyes bright.

He wondered when she’d grown so beautiful. Wondered when he’d first realized it. Was it a random day at the Ministry? Or was it further back? Covered in ash and sweat in the Great Hall, grieving and celebrating victory with her friends. Or maybe it was long before that. In a blue dress with Krum on her arm. Or in the steely look in her eyes before she punched him.

With the last swig of his whiskey he swallowed it down.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warning, see the end notes.

The thought of investigating Nott Manor didn’t frighten Hermione. Being alone with Malfoy was another story. She knew he was a capable wizard, one who’d received top marks at Hogwarts and was skilled at dueling. He was basically an auror without the title. Had received the same training as Harry. But instead of being in the field, like Harry was most days, he was a glorified administrative assistant.

She wasn’t sure she felt badly about that; it seemed to keep him busy, and she imagined he needed that. When she first heard about Nott Manor she was intrigued. She’d watched her fellow cursebreakers lead investigations. Searching known Death Eater hideouts for hidden objects — most of which were cursed or held dark magic. As if they were hoarding things away for whoever decided to make a play for Voldemort’s vacant throne.

But it had been three years since the so-called Dark Lord fell, and things were mostly quiet in wizarding Britain. The majority of her own assignments required her to assist more senior cursebreakers. Occasionally she worked with Bill, who had a newborn at home and wasn’t exactly itching for the bigger cases across the globe.

Or she assisted Aurors with their work to round up the last artifacts from Voldemort’s regime. Sitting in labs and analyzing old books and empty potion vials and jewelry and weapons for dark curses. A lot of the time it was solitary work, and she liked that. Being part of an extraction team was exciting but she’d had enough excitement in her seven years of school — well, six years and one year of war. It had been a relief to return to Hogwarts for a few weeks to finish her N.E.W.T.s, though she’d secretly wished she got to have the full experience of her final year of school. McGonagall insisted that she didn’t need to. And her marks proved it. But being in those halls, with the stain of death, made it easier to sit the exams and leave.

Now she contemplated what to wear to a meeting with Malfoy and Theodore Nott, Jr. Her appearance was never something that bothered her. Practicality made sense. Especially for her job. Spending hours in front of a mirror seemed tedious and beyond the point, unless it was a special occasion. But she knew that the success of the mission would require accurate information. And she also knew that sometimes it was worth playing into the hand of an opponent. She might not have been as good at chess as Ron, but she understood the fundamentals of the game. Know your opponent.

Theodore had grown up with money and the power and privilege that money brings. Just as Malfoy had. Though she couldn’t quite picture Theodore, she was always able to picture Malfoy quite clearly. With his striking features and impeccable posture, strutting down a hallway when they were in school. The strut faltered in sixth year, and he became more reserved. He’d seemed that way now, too. Except for last week, when he’d been cruel to her. Like they were thirteen again.

Charlie had ranted about the encounter for the rest of the day. Rest of the week, really. He’d been visiting his family and reporting at the Ministry to share new information on illegally crossbred dragons. He stayed to help with the dismantling of an illegal magizoo and the seizure of their young dragons. Though she and Ron had parted ways romantically, Hermione still kept up with the Weasleys. And Charlie always made time to see her. Too much time according to Ron and not enough according to Mrs. Weasley. He was handsome in a rugged, stocky sort of way. Like Viktor had been. But there were too many complications with Charlie for her to really consider him an option. Not that that stopped him from flirting with her.

So she had purchased a new dress and worn her nicest shoes and a wool coat for her meeting over drinks with the two Slytherins. They’d asked her to choose the location and the Leaky Cauldron was the only pub she went to with any regularity. She apparated there and immediately noticed them — and the wide berth given to them by passersby. They were speaking in hushed voices, though they seemed to be having some sort of argument. Malfoy looked particularly tense, his hand was clenched in a tight fist at his side and his eyes simmered down at Theodore. They broke apart as she approached.

“Lovely to see you, Golden Girl.”

Theodore Nott, Jr, was more handsome than Hermione had remembered. He could have passed for a Muggle in his cream colored jumper with a silk patterned scarf beneath a tailored coat. Hair in dark waves swept back from his forehead. From what she remembered at school he had been scrawny — perhaps he had a delayed growth spurt after 6th year, and she missed the transformation. A cigarette dangled between his fingers and he took a long drag before vanishing it. She was surprised to see a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight smoking; most wizards considered it a Muggle habit. A pureblood smoking was ironic.

Malfoy seemed to catch her staring and scoffed, reaching out to open the door. There was a warmth creeping up her neck that she tried to extinguish as she lead the way into the pub.

“Thanks for accompanying us. They don’t usually like our presence here,” Theodore said as they slipped into a booth near the back. He stretched out in the center of the bench, forcing Malfoy to sit beside her. She struggled to take her coat off in the cramped space without hitting him. Keeping enough space between them.

Tom took their order, and while mid-afternoon on a Thursday seemed the appropriate time for both wizards to order a firewhiskey, she stuck to butterbeer. The wine selection at the Leaky was abysmal and anything stronger would make it difficult to plan for the mission.

She wondered if she should make smalltalk. It wasn’t something she was good at. Not like Ron and Harry, who could laugh and joke with anyone. It seemed like a waste of time to her. Talking about the weather or asking what they were doing that weekend. Instead she plowed ahead.

“I think it’s obvious that the most helpful thing you could do is draw us a map,” she said.

“And when did you have time for an arts class at Hogwarts, Granger?”

“You know very well there are no extra curricular classes available to wizarding students. And I don’t expect you to be an artist but a basic idea of the layout of the house is rudimentary. Which rooms we should take particular attention to and which ones are unlikely to hold any secrets. Things like that.”

“Fine,”Theodore said, cricking his neck. “Parchment and ink, if you please.”

She conjured both for him and he conjured his own elegant quill. Taking his time to chew on the end in thought before dipping it into the ink. Their drinks arrived and Hermione was annoyed at the amount of foam on her butterbeer. She twirled a finger in it to try to make it deflate. It worked better with Muggle beers.

Theodore first drew a rather large rectangle, and then a series of connected smaller rectangles on each of the narrowed ends until they connected at the back, forming a sort of courtyard. A few circles and random lines around the main structure. She had a hard time following his logic until she realized that he was drawing an aerial view, complete with trees, ponds, and paths through the grounds. If he’d had paints, she imagined it would be a beautiful landscape.

“Sold your artistic abilities short, mate,” Malfoy said. Hermione agreed.

“I used to fly over the estate quite a lot. Makes it slightly easier, though I’m afraid it’s not to scale.”

He started to label things in infinitesimal little letters, a precise print she had to squint to read. Then he started to point at different spots on the map. “This is the main entry, and it splits off into the public and private wings of the house. Ballroom,” he pointed, tapping the quill at each place, “drawing room, music room, conservatory, kitchens will be beneath the dining room but pretty inconsequential. We had elves.” Hermione wondered at his use of the past tense while Theodore continued. “This side of the house is mainly bedrooms and studies. There’s a sculpture room that I was never allowed in. A…I supposed you’d call it a trophy room. That might be one of the places you check first, it’s warded extensively. Lot of heirlooms there.”

“What’s this here? You’ve drawn an X down this wing—”

“That’s my suite, and Draco has specific instructions for what I’d like you to retrieve from under the bed—”

“Oh shut it, you git.”

“This is helpful, thank you, Theodore,” Hermione said, eyes memorizing the map and categorizing the rooms.

“Theo, please. Bad enough to share a bloodline with my father. He hates being nicknamed but I happen to adore everything he hates.”

“Theo, then. What else should we know? Anything specific about the wards, especially if there’s blood magic there. I know a lot of the older families use them and that would prove to be a problem for us.”

“As a precaution I’ll drain some blood just for you, Golden Girl, but as far as I know, my father removed the blood wards so that his Death Eater pals could come and go as they pleased.” Theo sipped his whiskey and tapped his fingers on the table.

Hermione had a thought, but she bit her lip, unsure if she should voice it.

“Out with it Granger, before you draw blood,” Malfoy said.

“Well, it’s just…if Death Eaters came and went as they pleased,” she swallowed and looked through her lashes at him. “Were you ever called there?”

Malfoy stiffened, the fingers gripping his drink tightened. “I was mostly a prisoner in my own home during my _service_. I haven’t been to the Nott estate in what, ten years?” Theo nodded, staring vacantly at the table. “My memory isn’t the best,” Malfoy added, casting his eyes to his drink and taking a deep swig. She wondered if he meant something he wasn’t saying. But then again she was used to that from Malfoy, in the few days she’d interacted with him lately. Working on their plans for the next day. He’d been professional but private.

“So no blood wards then. What else should we know about the house? Or your father, I suppose.” Hermione had spoken with Harry about Nott Sr. but having a written dossier would only get them so far.

“The house is enormous, cold, full of hideous portraits and bad tapestries. A lot of collections. I’m sure the Ministry will be interested in most of what you’re able to recover. Some very nice furniture that would do well at auction,” Theo drolled.

“And your father? What should we know?”

“Granger—”

“Pretty standard abusive father, really,” Theo said, his tone flippant. “I would expect he’s installed a fair number of traps of his own but he also had…friends staying there for a few years. They would have practiced putting things together for the Dark Lord, I imagine. I haven’t been there in almost five years and before that, I kept to my own wing so I’m afraid whatever intelligence you’ve gathered is probably more comprehensive than what I know.” Theo seemed mildly irritated. Drumming his fingers on the table faster.

“Theo, I don’t need you to relive your past. You don’t have to share anything you’re not comfortable with but if there’s anything you think we should know, it’ll be helpful for me and Malfoy to prepare.”

“He was always interested in potions. Experimenting in his lab. I know Robards thinks he was working on some sort of poison but I don’t really know much about his activities in the last decade. I do know he liked games. Perhaps more than anything.”

When Theo didn’t continue Hermione flicked her eyes to Malfoy, who had a crease between his brows and a scowl on his face.

“What do you mean?”

“Granger—”

“Well, for one, he liked to lead me into different rooms and trap me there until I could find my way out. Sometimes it was the library, if I was looking for a book for school. The shelves would move and I’d be in a cage. He’d order the elves to leave me there until I figured out his riddles. Build my character.”

She chewed the corner of her lip. “Did you just have to find the right door or something?”

“No, I usually had to sacrifice something I cared about like a toy or a sweet or otherwise humiliate myself for his enjoyment. I already told Robards but I think sending only two of you there is a mistake. That house…it’s designed to keep you inside of it, if that’s what he wants. If Senior is helping aurors get inside of it, he wants them to stay there. It’s always for his amusement. Even from Azkaban.”

Hermione looked at Malfoy again, and he’d turned to look at her, too. His expression was hard; she could see him clench his jaw. She looked at her hands and back at Theo, who leaned against his chair. Fingers drumming.

“Will you have a way out?” He asked, looking at Hermione. His green eyes weren’t arresting, like Harry’s. They were haunted and darker, almost like pine in the heart of winter. Beautiful with his tan skin and brown hair. The features that must have come from his mother. She’d seen pictures of his pale and unremarkable father.

“I’m guessing we can’t apparate,” Hermione said.

“And no Floo access, of course. You’ll need a portkey.”

“We have an emergency portkey from Robards. I suppose I can always call one of the elves from the manor, if it comes to that,” Malfoy said.

Hermione didn’t love the idea but it was a good backup plan. Elf magic worked differently. It was possible they could breach the wards. Like Kreacher could, in the cave.

“When will you leave?” Theo asked.

“In the morning. Robards wants us back on Monday to report. Seems to think we’ll be able to do it in a day and have the weekend to recover,” Malfoy replied. “What do you reckon?”

Theo laughed, the motion of his fingers stopped, replaced by a slap on the table. A fly buzzed and landed elsewhere. “Just promise me you’ll use that portkey if my father’s games are too much.”

Malfoy nodded and finished his drink. Hermione took another sip of her butterbeer, wiping her mouth after in case she had any foam lingering on her lip. It made her fingers sticky.

“Anyway. This has been…something. I could use a smoke,” Theo stood. “Lovely chatting with you, Hermione.”

Malfoy slid out of the booth and donned his coat. She pushed to the edge of the bench and hesitated.

“Granger, I’ll meet you at seven at the apparition point,” Malfoy said. And then she watched the two former Slytherins walk out the door.

She needed parchment and ink. Needed to write things down and make lists before she forgot. It was still relatively early, and Tom was used to her hunching over a table surrounded by books and papers. So she summoned everything she needed from her satchel and got to work.

* * *

It was late and Hermione contemplated what to pack once again. She hated to be underprepared, but bringing the tent seemed excessive, so that stayed. If they weren’t able to finish the investigation in a day, they could transfigure their own beds. If that wasn’t safe they could use the portkey and leave. It would cost the department to get them another, so it had to be a last resort. Most of the things she’d packed for hunting horcruxes remained in her little beaded bag from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, hidden by a (not strictly legal) extension charm and a featherlight charm. She didn’t want to carry that bag with her, though. It felt odd to wear it now. So she sat on the floor of her bedroom, sifting through the beaded bag and moving things to the leather satchel that Harry had given her for her birthday that year. She’d already added extension and featherlight charms to it. Made her day-to-day a bit easier.

This time she left most of the books, bringing _Spellman’s Syllabary_ and her _Runic Dictionary_ along with a few more obscure runic translations, just in case. And a few potions texts. Parchment and ink and quills, of course, to take notes. A Muggle notebook and pen as well. As a backup.

Potion making supplies, some essence of dittany, some calming draught, and a few other potions that might be useful. She had bandages, too, and other Muggle healing supplies. Some spare clothes. Rations and chocolates and empty flagons she could fill with coffee and water with the wave of her wand. As she packed her teas and sugar, she remembered that she’d always seen Malfoy put honey in his tea at breakfast. So she rummaged in her cupboards for the small jar Neville had sent her from the apiary he’d started at Hogwarts.

Normally she’d pack some dark art detectors, though she expected them to light up the second they reached the property lines. Most of them she left. A few Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes products — instant darkness powder, extendable ears, a portable swamp.

She eschewed her typical Ministry uniform for more of a Muggle outfit that would be easier to move and run in, should she need to. A t-shirt under a jumper. Slim jeans and lace-up boots that had good tread and steel toes she’d reinforced with magic. She wore a warm wool coat, a scarf, and her satchel over it all. Pulled her hair back into two loose plaits and topped it with a knit hat. It was cold, and the Nott estate was near the coast.

Crookshanks wasn’t happy that she was packing. He trudged through her little piles of minimized supplies, kicking things with his large paws and swatting them with his tail as he moved through the room. What he did wasn’t exactly meowing; it was like a soft roar. Harry would stop by to feed him and check on him while she was away. It was supposed to be an easy mission, in and out, but she wanted to prepare in case it took an extra day or two and Crooks got lonely. He was a nightmare whenever she came back from a trip, however short. Howling at her and ripping up whatever was closest. Last time he destroyed the side of her sofa, glaring at her as if to say _How dare you?_ It had taken more than a few spells to repair it.

She scratched under his chin, where his mane was thickest. With a purr that was more growl, he leaning against her. Pressing against her shins and wrapping around her legs. “Harry will be by later to feed you and I’ll be home very soon.”

Crookshanks let out a final _rowl_ and swished his tail, retreating into the bedroom. Hiding in his favorite spot in the corner under her bed, tucked between her old schoolbooks.

With one last look around the cramped flat she apparated to Diagon. Landing firmly on the pavement. Malfoy was already there, leaning against the wall of the Leaky though he straightened when he saw her.

It was surprising to see him dressed in Muggle attire. Black trousers and jumper over a charcoal collared shirt. Topped with a black pea coat and a grey scarf, hands in the pockets. Likely holding his wand.

“Granger,” he said, nodding in greeting.

“Shall we?” She replied, and took a step closer. He’d been to the estate before, so he’d be the one to apparate them outside of its wards.

Malfoy held his arm out and she gripped it tightly, ready for him to turn and take them there. Instead he hesitated.

“Granger, Theo wasn’t exaggerating about his father. There’s still time for you to back out. Get someone else to go.”

“Why would I do that? I volunteered,” she said. “I want to do this. Now stop stalling and—”

She didn’t get to finish her thought before he twisted them away, a precise movement that was so much less jarring than whenever she apparated with others. Like there was an elegance to it. They landed high on a cliff overlooking the sea. It had been months since she’d seen the ocean. Felt the spray of salt on her face and tasted the tang of marine on the air.

It was bitter cold, and she could feel her teeth begin to chatter. As she looked around, she saw nothing. Just cliff and sea and endless fields.

“Where are we?” She said, shivering.

“We’ll need to walk from here,” he said. “It’s just beyond the ridge and hidden from sight by a number of spells. Once we’re close to the wards we should be able to see it.”

“Like Hogwarts,” she said quietly. He nodded. It didn’t have the same memories it once did, but the magic of the castle would always interest her. Perhaps one day she’d be able to read _Hogwarts, A History_ again. For now it was tucked away, like all the memories she wasn’t ready to access.

They trudged through the grass and mud, and she struggled to keep up with his long strides. He’d always been fit, lean like a seeker, but where Harry was on the shorter side, Malfoy was tall. Shoulders broad and spine rigid. They didn’t speak much, other than to warn each other about large stones and other places where one might trip.

“You said you spent time here before,” she started, stepping over a root. There was more vegetation now, little trees and brambles. Crows perched and cawing.

“When we were small, on occasion,” Malfoy said. Picking up the pace. “If my father had business there and I accompanied him. Most of the time it was the other way around. Once we went to Hogwarts Theo spent his breaks at the Manor.”

“To get away from his dad?”

Malfoy nodded. “I don’t think his father even knew. Just assumed he spent the Christmas break at Hogwarts. My mother kept rooms for him.”

Hermione tried to imagine what it must have been like for both of them. And for Narcissa Malfoy, to care for a child that wasn’t your own. She didn’t know his mother other than from sight, but after what she’d done for Harry — for all of them — just to protect her own son, she thought they might have at least one thing in common.

They crested a hill and at first all that was in front of them was another large field. But there was a slight shimmer to it, and Hermione knew they were near the property line. In a few steps, they cleared it and the Nott estate came into view.

It was large, nearly the size of Malfoy Manor, and much larger than any other home Hermione had ever been to. Outside of royal residences with her parents. The front walk was paved and meticulously manicured, though no one had lived there for over three years. The house itself was Georgian in style, made of cream colored stone and columns. Three storeys. It looked like a museum. Or a mausoleum.

They neared the gates, and Hermione could feel the magic rippling in the air. The gate was made of iron, with an ornate door of twisted nightshade and thorns. At the center was the Nott family crest — a Hebridean Black, curled around the door handles. Its bright purple eye the size of a Galleon. It looked like an amethyst, and it probably was.

“Before we get too close,” Malfoy said, putting out an arm to still her. She nearly walked into it, and her breath caught. “You should put this on.”

He reached into a pocket of his coat and pulled out a small vial on a silver chain. It looked goblin wrought, and inside the crystal vessel was a dark red liquid.

“What is it?” She asked, though she had a guess. It was warm from being against his chest. The silver chain was long, and the crystal had tiny stars etched on it. She thought it beautiful, if a bit macabre.

“Theo spilt his precious blood as promised. It’s likely that I’ll be able to cross the property line but this will ensure that you can, too. If the blood wards were reactivated.”

She looked up at him and tilted her head, the vial still between her fingers. “Won’t the magic know that I’m Muggleborn regardless?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes but because you have the blood of the heir on your person it will assume that you’re allowed in. Or at least, that’s what everything I’ve researched seems to say.”

“You looked it up?”

“Granger, you’re not the only one who reads.”

“I know that, Malfoy, I just meant that you took time to research something for my benefit. I’m surprised, that’s all.”

“Well I like to be prepared and if anything happens to you, it’s my arse that will end up in Azkaban. Right next to Theo’s father. So yes, I looked into it.”

“And you’re sure this will make it safe for me to enter?” She turned the pendant in her hands. Watching the drops of blood move like mercury.

“You should wear it,” he said. “Put it on before we get to the Guardian.”

“The _what_?” She asked, but he had already moved towards the gate and began to test the wards.

There were a few spells that she could cast to determine if the gate was safe to open, so she began to weave them into the air, softly speaking the incantations. The gates glowed a deep green, and the dragon around the door handles began to move, as if woken from a deep slumber. Its purple eyes gleamed, catching the midmorning sunlight.

“Who wishes to enter?” A deep voice said from the mouth of the dragon. It sounded metallic and old, both masculine and feminine. The Guardian, it seemed, was the Hebridean Black of the crest.

Hermione looked to Malfoy, unsure if she should be the one to answer a pureblood enchantment.

“Open your gates to the Malfoy heir,” he said, with the haughty superiority she expected from him. It was more command than request, and the grip on his wand was firm.

“Two wish to enter, two must be named,” said the dragon.

She swallowed and straightened her spine. “Hermione Granger,” she said, as firmly as she could. “Let us through the gate, please.”

The dragon unfurled its wings, stretching them across the iron. They flapped lightly, and it turned its face to them. The eerie eyes focused somewhere in the distance. They had no pupils. Just the purple gemstones. Its tongue flicked like a snake’s.

“A riddle you must answer. Answer wrong and the doors will forever be barred to you, young wizards. Do you accept?”

They looked at each other and answered _yes_ in unison. The dragon spoke again:

I am born in fear,

raised in truth,

and I come to my own in deed.

When comes a time that I’m called forth,

I come to serve the cause of need.

Malfoy took a sharp breath and huffed it out in annoyance. “Well then, Granger? What do you reckon?”

He watched her with his cool grey eyes. Lips twisted as he contemplated the answer. It seemed a simple riddle. Which meant it was likely more complicated. Hermione thought through the lines for a few moments, puzzling it out to herself in whispered guesses while Malfoy watched her. It seemed like he was impatient but he didn’t speak. Just watched her with a furrowed brow.

 _Born in fear — come to serve the cause of need_ , she thought. There was only one thing that she called upon when she was afraid.

With a quick clearing of her throat she said clearly, “Courage.”

“Reason leads the way,” the dragon said, then it moved to one side of the gate and curled back into a ball, like a cat. And the gate swung open.

“Better let me go first,” Malfoy said. When he reached the gate he inhaled and took a measured step onto the property, casting a few spells. Nothing seemed to alarm him so he nodded for her to join him. She clutched the vial of Theo’s blood and took her steps to join him. “Not so bad, then.”

She laughed. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” he said, rolling his eyes. Taking long strides down the front path.

Topiary trees lined the drive and there were groomed little gardens of rosebushes and several statues throughout. Most of it matched the map that Theo had drawn them. She pulled it from her satchel and compared the little sketches he’d made to the flora around them. There were patches of plants, magical and nonmagical, right where he’d said. But the house itself seemed slightly off. As if something with the scale didn’t match up. It looked both larger and smaller than it should.

The statues throughout the grounds moved slightly. She recognized Merlin and Salazar Slytherin. A witch who could have been Morgan le Fey. Turning to watch them as they walked down the lane. Hermione could feel their stone eyes on her. And she wondered if they could leave their posts. If they were like the suits of armor at Hogwarts. Ready to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief mention of childhood abuse/neglect
> 
> Thank you for reading, I am so honored by the response to the first chapter! I hope the dual POV is a nice surprise. xx Lu


	3. Chapter 3

The Guardian glared at them from the main door, its eyes narrowed in distaste. Most of the times that Draco had visited Theo’s house, the Guardian slept. Wrapped in on itself and immobile. But now it seemed it had been instructed to do its job and guard the estate. It was the Nott family sigil, which meant it was all over the house. In the etchings on silver goblets and embroidered onto cushions and sculpted of marble, sitting on tables. In the rugs and the wallpaper and the duvet covers. Fucking everywhere. Its eyes were always pure amethyst, an arresting shade. So like the Hebridean Black he’d once seen at a dragon sanctuary on holiday with his parents as a boy.

The real one hadn’t asked riddles. It had been fascinating to watch Granger puzzle out the answer. The way that she seemed to read through the pages of her vast brain, flipping back and forth, searching. Like going through the stacks of a library. Her thought process was thorough and so sure. It was terrifying, how captivated he’d been with the way she bit her lip. How he’d stared at her until he’d taken a deep breath through his nose and occluded it away.

The wind picked up, and he knew they should get indoors soon. “Good morning, Guardian,” he said to the carved dragon at the center of the large oak doors. Its scales had been chiseled into the wood in even little diamonds. The Guardian turned and looked at them, its dark purple eyes glowing brighter in the sun.

“Is it?”

Granger gasped without opening her mouth, but he still heard it. A sharp inhale through her nose, halting at the end.

“Right. Either way we would very much like to enter the house. Your master knows we’re here,” he added.

The Guardian yawned and stretched, bringing its claws far from its body and arching its back. Great wings unfurling to flap once before settling down on its heels and laying in a curled ball. “Have it your way,” it said.

There was a clicking sound, as if a dozen invisible locks were opened, and the door swung forward into the dark house.

They both gripped their wands and cast a _lumos_ to light their way. The entryway was large, with tall ceilings and a crystal chandelier that hummed to life once they’d crossed the threshold. It was big as a hippogriff and twinkled softly. The white marble floor gleamed beneath their feet, echoing their steps. But instead of the twin staircases Theo had drawn meeting in the middle, and the large hallways to each wing of the house that Draco had known as a boy, there was only an elegant table at the center of the space. A single door behind it. No windows or skylights. In his memories the foyer was always bathed in sunlight. The entry point for the vast lengths of the mansion.

This was not the house he’d known.

Granger held the map from Theo tightly in her left hand. Squeezing the parchment as if she could wring its secrets from the ink. “This isn’t what Theo said it would look like,” she said, holding the map out so that Draco could see it.

“Yes, it’s a bit…different from what I remember. But Theo hasn’t even been here since sixth year. We knew there was a chance the house wouldn’t match what he’d said.”

“But it doesn’t even make sense compared to the exterior. There were windows beside the door, and the roof slanted—”

“Robards said something to me, before you arrived the other day. That Nott Senior was vague. Something about the layout of the house depending on who opened the door.”

“And you think he was being serious?”

“Given the architecture we’re looking at, yes.”

“Doesn’t make it any less inconvenient,” she said and he silently agreed. “I’m going to run some detection spells. Just the standard fleet for traps and hidden things and the like. If you know any it would be helpful if you did them too. We should be thorough,” she said. And with a nod, she started to mutter incantations and twirl her wand through the air. Writing runes and speaking quickly.

Draco surveyed the room. There were no portraits or tapestries, just subtle wallpaper in a dark purple, with the Nott family crest blended in among the flora and fauna of the surrounding area. No house elf greeted them, though the Manor had a squadron of them before the war. He cast some dark magic detection spells, a bit useless since the ley lines of the house were steeped in it. Of course there would be dark magic present. Then he tested for hidden traps and watched Granger perform her own spells. She was precise with her wandwork, and some of the spells she cast were intricate and made use of runes drawn into the air. Lighting her skin, a faded tan still freckled from summer. He’d never seen spells like them before.

At the center of the room, on a dark mahogany table, was the Guardian. Carved of obsidian and resting on a golden chalice. Not quite a throne though it lounged as if it sat on one, lording over its subjects. Its bright purple eyes fixed on Draco. The amethyst reflected the candlelight from the chandelier, lending a hunger to its stare.

“Guardian,” Draco said, taking a few steps closer. Granger continued with her spells but turned to watch from the corner of her eye as she traced the room.

“Honored guests, welcome to the Noble House of Nott. My Lord wishes you well on your journey, for you will need it,” said the dragon in its timeless voice.

“I used to come here when I was a boy. The house is different from what I remember,” Draco said. He held his wand tightly in hand.

“It has been rearranged special for you. Through this door you will find the origin of your path,” as it spoke the Guardian swished its tail to the lone door at the other end of the foyer. “Until you have answered the questions asked of you and completed the tasks in front of you, Nott Manor will be your home. Forever.”

Granger whipped her head towards the front door, and her large brown eyes grew even larger. Draco turned to understand why and laughed. A startled huff of a laugh. Because where there was once a great oak door now showed nothing but a blank stretch of wall. He spun around the room, looking for the front door. Trying to find where it moved. But there was only the door ahead of them and the Guardian on the table, smiling with sharp teeth beneath black gums.

“We can’t leave?” Granger said, looking from the statue of the Guardian and back to Draco. It was more statement than question but he answered it anyway.

“Afraid not. Have you found anything else we need to worry about?”

She shook her head. “It’s clear.”

They walked closer to the table, stopping just before it.

“Guardian,” Draco said, “Is there anything you can tell us about what’s through that door?”

It was a stretch, he knew, but worth a try.

“Through the door lies your entry to the first of many tasks. Prove yourself worthy of this ancient home and the prize shall be yours. Fail, and you will remain within these walls,” the Guardian said. Finality in its tone.

“Well, Granger, shall we head towards our doom now or do you need a minute or two of catastrophizing?”

She rolled her eyes and strode ahead of him to the door, beginning her incantations once more. Trying to determine if there was something beyond it. He let her do it, waiting a few minutes until she was satisfied. “If you open the door, I can take the brunt of whatever curse might await us on the other side,” he said.

“What a gentleman,” she replied, and yanked the brass handle, swinging the door towards them.

Though he had his wand at the ready and a long list of hexes on his tongue, what greeted them on the other side was shockingly benign.

It was Theodore Nott Sr.’s study. Draco had only ever walked by it as a child, when his father and Mr. Nott would smoke cigars and reprimand them for snooping. _Run along, Draco_. It wasn’t a large room, perhaps the size of his old suite at the Manor. There was a black marble fireplace that roared to life when they approached, a lush grey sofa, two black arm chairs, a grand mahogany desk, and lots of leather bound books in shelves along the walls. Above the fireplace was a large tapestry from at least the 17th century. It had faded, but the slumbering dragon was as black as night and alive as the other Guardians they’d encountered thus far. This time it was nestled in a forest, surrounded by pine trees beneath a stormy sky.

“They didn’t talk before,” Draco said as the two of them examined the tapestry. Watching the dragon’s body rise and fall with its slumbering breath. The woven threads seemed to breath, too.

“Really? You address it like you’re familiar,” she replied.

“In the past I’ve only ever had to speak to the one at the gate, to announce myself. It’s the Nott family sigil so it’s in every room at least once. They were always just…there, before. And now they all seem to speak.”

“Do you think we can even trust what it says?” Granger tilted her head and searched the stitched dragon.

Draco contemplated for a moment. “I think to an extent we might have to. It’s part of the game but it’s also been in this house for centuries. It serves the family and that includes Theo.” He pointed to the vial around her neck. “It must know that a part of him is here.”

“Blood magic isn’t my favorite,” she admitted, twisting the pendant in her fingers. Smoothing her thumb over the engraved stars. “But perhaps it will help in a place like this.”

“What secrets are waiting to kill us in here, do you think? Dawlish made some crack about a basilisk in the basement—”

“Why don’t you start searching and we’ll find out?” She said, crossing in front of him to look at the bookshelves. He wondered when he felt comfortable enough to talk to her in this way. And when she’d decided she could respond in kind. Almost like they were friends.

It was warm from the fire and so far nothing had tried to murder him, so he took off his coat and draped it over the arm of the sofa, followed by his scarf. Then he reached into the inside pocket for his potions folio, which he slipped in his trousers pocket. He kept it on his person at all times, just in case. Granger kept her own jacket on, along with her knitted hat and scarf. She remained predictably occupied with the bookshelves so he tested the drawers of the desk. Locked, of course. Impervious to magic. The large window behind the desk overlooked the extensive grounds. Something about the lighting was off. As if the sky didn’t match the early hour in the day. It was then that he noticed they were elevated, though they hadn’t climbed any stairs. It was as if the door in the foyer transported them upstairs and down the hall to the study. The little square Theo had drawn on his map. The view overlooked the rose garden, with its bubbling fountains. The window was locked, too. Impenetrable.

He moved away from there to inspect other corners of the room. The fireplace was just a fireplace. The furniture was fine velvet and supple leather but nothing lurked in the cushions or under the rug. If they were stuck here forever, at least whoever decorated the estate had taste.

Theo had said that the house would want to keep them inside of it. Though his blood status would likely allow him to get out if it came to that, hers would not.

“Is there any magic that could prevent the portkey from working?” He asked. “Could we really be trapped here?” When he looked back at her she was focused, trailing her detection spells over each and every book. Lips forming the titles along the spines in between incantations.

“The only places with that level of defensive protections are Azkaban, which does a rigorous search of all entrants, and Hogwarts. Between Dumbledore and the combined magic of the Founders its wards are distinguished. Nothing that I’ve read has been able to replicate that security measure,” she said, and he knew that she had likely read everything about it twice over. Probably reviewed them again after Robards gave her the portkey the day before, wrapped in a silk handkerchief.“Everything seems…normal. I’m almost more worried about that than if there’d been, I don’t know, a manticore behind the door. Why make such a big deal about challenges and then stick us in a room like this?”

Draco flopped onto the sofa in front of the fire, warming his still cold boots as he stretched his long legs into the room. “Cozy enough,” he said, leaning his head back, hands clasped over his stomach. He never sat this way in front of company. “Maybe we’re just meant to wait.”

“Malfoy, we’re meant to do a job,” she said. “You can’t just relax like you’re in your own sitting room. The mission is supposed to be as quick as possible. Get in, get the potion, get out.”

“Seems like we’ve found our base. For the mission,” he added. As he said it he sat up and stretched, stepping away from the couch.

“Greetings, honored guests.”

The Guardian had woken at some point during their investigation of the room. Its voice was almost sultry this time. “You are most welcome here,” it said, pacing the length of the tapestry. Its talons digging into the woven forest floor. Scattering embroidered pine needles.

“Thank you,” Draco said. It had seemed the polite thing to say.

“On the desk you shall find a note from your gracious host. May your stay at Nott Manor be unforgettable,” the Guardian said. Then, with a mighty flap of its wings, it disappeared into the hazy sky, soaring out of the border of its tapestry. Off to terrorize some woven village somewhere else in the estate.

Granger pulled a cream envelope from the top of the desk. It hadn’t been there when Draco examined it just minutes before. He stood over her, wand at the ready. With strong fingers she broke the purple wax seal and removed the thick parchment, unfolding it. She read aloud, her voice clear:

> _Distinguished guests,_
> 
> _Welcome to my home, the most Noble House of Nott. I confess I don’t like visitors, but I am nothing if not a gracious host. May you find refuge here in my personal study. The books are yours to peruse. The furniture is yours for rest. Fear not, for nothing within these walls can harm you._
> 
> _Beyond this room you will find a new room through each door. Solve my riddles and complete my tasks and you will make your way back to the entrance. If you have the grace and grit to beat the clock, dear guest, you will be rewarded. Should you fail, I look forward to adding you to my collection._

It was signed in looping script, Theodore Nott. The ink as purple as the walls around them. Draco remained in his spot, rereading the letter over her shoulder.

“What do you think he means here?” She asked, dragging her finger over the last line. Lingering at _my collection_.

“Maybe that’s what the trophy room Theo mentioned is. Just taxidermy witches and wizards who got stuck in this nightmare house,” he replied. “Or perhaps it’s like Medusa, and we’ll end up stone.”

Granger took a deep breath and let it out harshly. “So we can at least assume that the danger is greater than Robards anticipated.”

“Always is.”

“And what do you think? Is it safe in this room?”

Draco thought for a moment. Knowing Mr. Nott, and just how much he liked to play games, he wondered. But what use was creating such a game for it to end quickly, all because your participants summoned a glass of water?

“I think we can trust his word,” he said, moving back towards the fireplace. The Guardian was still out of frame. “It seems to me he would want us to succeed at first, get us to a feeling of complacency. It’s no fun if we fail too soon. So presumably we’ll be able to return here at least once. Easiest tasks first, hardest tasks later.”

Granger finally took off her coat and scarf, placing them next to his. Then she thought better of it and used her wand to transfigure one of the candlesticks on the desk into a coat rack, sending both of their coats to rest neatly in the corner. She took off her hat and ran a tentative hand over her hair, which had begun to creep out of its plaits.

“Right. Then we should think about the rest of the letter. _Beyond this room you will find a new room_ — that seems to tell us that every time we open the door we’ll be somewhere else.”

“Well deduced,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. No use fraying the cuffs. If they were to face the unknown in Nott Manor, he figured he should be ready for a fight. More ready than he had been at the gate. “We can mark them off on Theo’s map.”

Granger bit her lip and toyed with the end of one of her plaits. “How will we know what the tasks are? It’s not likely he’ll leave instructions at the door.”

“I think we’ll have to just…see what happens. What’s behind the door, as it were.”

She seemed to look far away, lost in a memory. “We should think about different magical buildings. Specifically ones that change. Like Hogwarts.”

Draco swallowed his distaste. When their eyes met, he saw the same hollowness that he felt whenever he thought about the castle. How hard it had been to go back to take his N.E.W.T.s. To walk across stones stained with blood and walls that had felt death. Echoed its song. The new layers of sorrow in the air tasted like the ash on the wind that day, when the Dark Lord finally fell.

“I’m sure he was inspired by parts of the castle. Have you read about any other places that might be worth talking about?”

“Using transfiguration and different charms is fairly common in magical prisons and banks. Sometimes private homes will take extra measures for valuables. I can’t really think of anything specific though,” she said, keeping her head down.

“What about the bit in the note about the clock? Are we being timed?”

“That was my thought as well.”

As they were brainstorming the different meanings of Nott’s words, Draco noticed a small section of wall begin to stretch. “Granger,” he said, pointing. The door to the first room shimmered to life.

It was fairly innocuous. A basic wood, possibly pine. Simple iron doorknob. No etchings or details. Just plain planks of wood hinged with wrought iron fixtures.

“There’s nothing decorative on it, so it’s likely a private room that wouldn’t be used often,” he mused. “What I remember of the house from being here as a child is grand doorways and golden doorknobs on even the wardrobe doors in the least attended guest rooms. Something like this would be, I don’t know, the door to a storage closet or something. Nothing the actual residents would use.”

Granger summoned some parchment from her satchel and a fresh pot of ink. She pulled a quill next and began to write notes and sketch a rough version of the layout so far, comparing it to Theo’s map as she went. Trying to puzzle out what else it could be before they walked head first into something they weren’t quite ready for.

She traced her wand over the wood of the door, drawing a rune. Letting it etch itself in, glowing gold and bright. Each line created with care. He’d taken Ancient Runes at school and mostly kept up with it out of boredom, so he recognized it once she’d pulled away.

“ _Eihwaz_?”

“I want to make sure we mark the places we’ve been, just in case,” she said.

_Eihwaz_ , a rune for strength and endurance. They’d likely need both.

The speed in which she summoned everything she needed from her satchel gave him pause. “What else have you got in that bag of yours?”

He watched the blush paint her cheeks, and she tried to hide it by turning away from him. But it was too late. It was already tucked away in his mind. “Just some essentials. Emergency items. Potions. A few Weasley products—”

He snatched the satchel when she was distracted, peeking inside. “Good grief, Granger. A featherlight charm? And — is that an extension charm? You know those aren’t legal.” He _tsk_ ed and shook his head. Reveling in the thrill of teasing her in this way. “Breaking the rules, just like the old days I see.”

“I like to be prepared,” she said, reaching for it. He chuckled and held it beyond her reach. Raised high above her head while he rummaged through its contents.

“Prepared means packing _this_?” He replied, holding up a gnome-shamed teapot. She looked as though she could murder him with her scowl. “Oh, and of course we will need—” he rummaged in the bag and pulled out a small, square block of parchment “whatever _this_ is. Why is this parchment stuck together? Who needs hundreds of pages of neon green parchment held together with a sticking charm?” He pulled the top layer off, and was disgusted to feel glue against his fingers. So he stuck it to her arm. Watching it cling to her knit jumper. “Just the _necessities_ when on a mission, eh Granger?”

She ripped her bag from his hand the moment he lowered it, then roughly took the teapot and the strange parchment from him and shoved them back inside. “They’re for taking notes! It’s useful to be able to stick them inside of books without writing on the pages. And the teapot has an obvious purpose,” she said, the words a flustered rush. “You’ll be glad I thought to bring it when your stomach grumbles in an hour!”

“Did you think to bring anything useful? A bottle of Ogden’s, maybe. Some bandages or—”

“Of course I brought bandages.”

“Well that’s a relief. Somewhere in the depths of your bag is a bandage. Hope you can summon it before I bleed out. Might take a while to find it, what with the teapots and—” 

“When you’re bleeding on the floor it will be my honor to step around you and leave you there,” she snapped, hands on her hips. Nose in the air. Defiant.

And he laughed. Truly laughed. It had been a while since he’d done more than the expected polite chuckle, whenever he was unfortunate enough to be pulled into small talk at the Ministry. “Alright then,” he said. “Point taken.”

Granger read over the map again, listing rooms that it could possibly be. “It should be something fairly simple,” she deduced, “since it’s the first room we’ve encountered. If he’d planned everything out, then it’s reasonable to believe that things will start off easy and then get progressively harder from there.”

“I guess we’ll never know if we don’t get a move on,” he said. With a few quick detection spells he deemed it safe to reach for the iron doorknob.

The door opened to a long hallway made of rough hewn stone and lined with sconces that lit up as they crossed the door frame. All the way down an endless narrow hall.

“After you,” Draco said with a smirk. She stepped ahead of him, and once they were fully in the hallway, the door shut behind them and disappeared. Rippling until it was the same stone as the walls.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything was covered in spiderwebs and dust. Hermione lit her wand and kept it aimed by her side, ready for any traps that escaped the litany of spells she’d cast to look for them. The only sound was their footsteps on the stone floor, echoing in the cramped space. The crackle of the flames on the sconces.

The ceiling was so low that he had to crouch. The hall itself was narrow, and they had to traverse it single file. It wound about in an unpredictable pattern. First they would swing left for a dozen paces. Then the wall would curve and round them nearly the opposite direction. The further they went the more the hall widened to accommodate them. The walls stretched further apart and the ceiling creeped taller. As if it knew that they needed more space, somehow.

“These games Theo’s father plays,” she said, slowing her steps a bit until he did the same. “I know it’s not really my business—”

“If you know it’s not your business and yet you’re still asking about it you don’t get to be angry with me if I choose not to tell you.”

“That’s fair,” she said. She turned to face him in the dim passage. “So it’s mind games, possibly, and it sounded like he would be… physical with Theo.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, then stepped around her. He began to quicken his pace once more. “Mr. Nott loved to play tricks on Theo and he was often violent with him so I imagine we will have at least a bit of both waiting for us behind all these doors.”

“And did—does,” she started, unsure how to ask what she needed to ask. Her stammering must have annoyed him because he stopped moving. “What about your father?”

Malfoy didn’t turn around. The sharp lines of his shoulders raised slightly as he took in a breath before relaxing on the exhale. “My father mostly played wizard’s chess. With and without the board,” he said. “He liked rules and discipline. There’s a certain way things are meant to be done. Certain…expectations.”

“Of you?”

He turned just enough to look over his shoulder at her, grey eyes narrowed. “Yes. And of others. If you didn’t know the rules it was hard to keep up.” “Is that why you did it?” She asked, then regretted it. One of his eyes ticked in the candlelight. His mouth a tight line. “Never mind, I’m sorry,” she said, and stepped around him to lead the way once more.

Though he didn’t say anything else she could feel him close behind her. A few times she thought he had been about to say something, but other than their steps it was quiet.

At the end of the hall was another simple wooden door with an iron handle.

“This is disgusting,” Malfoy said, his voice low. “Do you think the entire house will be like this? A spider’s web?”

“It’s just a bit of dust. You’ll live,” she replied. They were side by side now, facing the door.

“Ugh,” Malfoy said, grimacing at the cobwebs on his sleeves. He cast a quick _tergeo_ , instantly pristine again. Hermione rolled her eyes at his primness.

“Honestly, who cares about dust on their clothes in a time like this?” She said, hoping her tone was light. Teasing, like he sometimes did.

One of his pale hands reached for her and she tensed. A habit from the war she’d never been able to lose. He frowned at her flinch, then gently pulled something from her hair, holding it out for her inspection. It was a fat black spider, about the size of a Knut. Legs kicking in the air until Malfoy tossed it to the ground. The disgust on his face mirrored her own.

“Yes, who cares indeed.”

“Oh god,” she groaned, then cast her own cleaning charms over her body. Shaking her head as she did so. Hoping nothing else had clung to her plaits. When she looked back at him his lips curled faintly. “Fine, it was gross in the hallway. You’re not just overly concerned with your looks.”

Hermione tossed her plaits a bit, still worried that something else was caught in them. But it didn’t do to dwell on something like that. She turned her attention back to the door.

“Some of us take pride in our appearance. That was another one of his rules,” he added softly. It made her wonder if he’d ever tell her more about himself that she didn’t know. Behind the carefully crafted facade. Behind the taunts and teasing she’d known when they were young.

“Right. So the door is plain. And the hallway seemed spelled to adjust to the occupant’s height.”

“It’s clearly a house elf passage. I’d say store rooms or kitchens. Though it could have somehow taken us the stables, considering how long the walk was. The Notts have several Granians, unless Magical Creatures seized them after the war.”

Hermione thought for a moment. “I don’t think we can trust how far a hallway is. Or what a door looks like, either. What if we’re meant to expect a storage room and instead we’re greeted with the conservatory? Theo made a point to name some of the more dangerous plants housed there.”

“Well, Granger, the only way we’ll know is if we open the bloody thing,” Malfoy said, taking one last moment to pat down his pockets and check that his sleeves were to his liking. The faint edge of the Dark Mark peeping out on his forearm. The muscle flexing from his tightened grip on his wand. It wasn’t the hawthorn wand that Harry had won from him. She thought it might be the same wood as Ginny’s. Yew, maybe. Harry hadn’t kept the hawthorn wand but Malfoy must have purchased a new one for whatever reason.

First she cast all of her detection spells, looking for hidden traps or dangers behind the door. She thought about summoning one of her dark detecters from her bag but then she remembered what Malfoy had said about the ley lines of the house. Once she’d exhausted her preparations, with a deep breath, she yanked the door open.

Before them was a large kitchen with a grand hearth at the center of the opposite wall, a gigantic table with carving knives, stacks of plates, and glasses. There was a sink full of soapy water, dishes washing and drying themselves. A loaf of bread, still steaming where it rested on a tea towel. Step stools and bags of grain. Pots and pans hanging from the low ceiling and against the walls. Cutting boards of all sizes and shapes. The room was lit by a large, iron chandelier with fat beeswax candles dripping butter yellow wax.

The ceilings were low, except for above the hearth, which narrowed to a chimney. The counters and tabletop were shorter than any wizard would need. Because no witch or wizard needed to cook here. The knives were sized for small hands, too. In fact, everything was smaller than her kitchen at home — for the elves, she thought. Elves who no longer lived here. Before being sent to Azkaban, the elves of the convicted were freed by their masters. Hermione had been pleased with that.

Something about the way the room was designed reminded her of the kitchens at Hampton Court Palace. They’d gone there as a family once. On holiday before Hogwarts. Hermione had been awed by the gardens and the carved wooden ceilings of the interiors. But the kitchen had fascinated her. The size of the hearth and the feel of the uneven stone floor beneath her feet. The light from the windows, bathing everything in a warm glow. She’d begged her parents to purchase a dozen books from the gift shop. For months she was an expert on Tudor castles. Until she’d received her letter and purchased her first copy of _Hogwarts, A History_.

“What do you think we’re here for?” Malfoy asked, his deep voice shook her from the memories. He lazily trailed his right hand over the work table while his left continued to perform bits of magic to test the space for danger.

“Well, this is our entry into the mind of Mr. Nott. Whatever it is will set the tone for the rest of our…visit. If there’s some sort of creature I’m sure our presence will draw it out.”

They investigated the room a bit further, opening cupboards filled with serving dishes for all occasions, from informal to formal and gilded to garish. Drawers of silver cutlery and silk linens. It all seemed fairly normal.

“Maybe we’re meant to find something?” She said, examining the contents of the pantry. Glass jars of rice and pasta and tins of tomatoes. A basket of onions at the bottom. Another with potatoes. Perfectly preserved. As if someone had just popped down to the market for them.

“Right. You take that half and—”

“Greetings, travelers.” It was the Guardian. Stalking around a stretch of wall high above the hearth. Where the flames of hundreds of years of fires had stained the stone black with soot. Etched into the stone itself in thin lines. Its long tail flicking back and forth. “Many meals have been prepared here by careful hands.”

Hermione hadn’t noticed it when they first entered the room. It stopped its movement and turned its gaze upon them. It was the first Guardian they’d encountered that didn’t have an amethyst for an eye. Probably because this wasn’t a room for guests. It wasn’t a place to show wealth. It was fitting that its hide was black from soot and its lines were crudely drawn. Amateur, compared to the elegant depictions she’d seen so far.

“It is the wish of your host that you be taken care of, once you survive the meal,” the Guardian said. With a stretch of its hind legs it settled into a more comfortable position. Wings folding against its body. With a final look to Hermione and Malfoy, it closed its eyes, tucked its head on its front claws, and went to sleep.

“That was…helpful,” Malfoy said.

“I’m sure it loves to leave us confused,” she said. “I wonder if food will appear? Maybe we’re supposed to decide which of it is poisoned.”

Malfoy shook his head and tapped the work table. “I doubt that. No wizard of Nott’s lineage would expect to eat in a kitchen. They have formal and informal dining rooms for—”

The stack of dishes on the work table rose into the air and barreled towards them one after the other. Hermione blasted the first wave of them, shattering the porcelain throughout the kitchen.

The carving knifes stood on end, more of them shot out of the drawers to create a wall of blades.

“Granger, move!” Malfoy said, sweeping the broken shards from the floor and sending them flying at the second wave of plates. They collided in the middle of the room before crashing down. Hermione cast a shield charm in front of them but the knives sliced through it. She ran to the other side of the table and flipped it with her wand, creating a barricade. Malfoy ducked behind it, firing his own spells at the attacking kitchen.

“Any ideas?” He shouted as mixing bowls surged towards them.

The sink began to boil over, steam rising from the scalding water. Bubbles sticking together, forming a massive chain. It slithered from the water.

“You handle that side, I’ll handle this side,” she yelled back at him. She raced through different spells, a cooling charm on the sink to make the water less hot. Orchestrating a wave of water to try to extinguish the bubbles. Instead of eliminating them, the water made the bubbles even larger, twisting around the work table. Trapping them like a coiled snake around a rabbit.

On the other side, Malfoy was struggling with the knives. They’d changed direction, coming closer to their flimsy barricade. He pushed against it with cushioning charms and shield charms. More dishes careened towards them and he shattered them efficiently. Hermione had started to cast blasting spells at each bubble, satisfied when they popped and sprayed soapy water everywhere. Soaking them through. Finally she created a chink in the chain, large enough that the bubbles couldn’t reconnect.

“I have an idea,” Malfoy yelled over his shoulder.

“Brilliant, put it to action don’t just tell me about it!” She replied, popping more bubbles and trying to break the chain in more places before it could fuse back together.

Suddenly she was thrown to the ground, beneath Malfoy’s arm against the floor. “What are you _doing_?”

He flipped the table back to standing and pulled it over them. Its low height pressed down on his back, and he crowded her, pressing her closer to the stone floor. The weight and warmth of his body against hers. She kept her wand arm out, continuing to blast the bubbles. There was a loud _thud_ above them. The wall of knives had followed them.

“Did you just—?”

“I improvised,” he said, then levitated the table off of them and stepped away, helping her to finish with the bubbles. The knives shivered in the wood, trying to remove themselves but they were stuck. “Keep moving!”

They skirted the edge of the room, blasting the serving plates and soup tureens. The shards of porcelain from the destroyed plates ricocheted off the walls, peppering their skin with little cuts. Another wave escaped the cabinets, glassware that spun through the air, taking aim at them.

“Survive the meal,” she ground out between spells. They were back to back now, deflecting wine glasses and turning them into piles of crystal sand. “More like survive the dishes!”

Clearly she’d spoken too soon. The hearth fire roared, flames licking outward. A pot of what might have been stew grew larger as the flames increased. The lid rattling.

Malfoy aimed a freezing spell at it, suspending the cooking pot in ice. Its contents frozen in a waterfall. Hermione threw a blasting curse towards it, eliminating it as a threat. The hearth’s fires crept back towards the inner wall as the cauldron clattered against the stones.

There was a rattling from the drawers. Cutlery jumped to the floor, forming even lines and standing sentinel. She and Malfoy resumed their fighting stance, their backs nearly touching, circling the room. They swept spells over the forks and spoons, brushing them into twisted piles that Hermione transfigured into barricades around them. Adding cutting boards as another line of defense. Soon they had a few layers of protection.

She chanced a look at the stones above the hearth where the Guardian slumbered. It wouldn’t help them here. It seemed as though every drawer and cupboard had been emptied and yet they still fought their way through an onslaught of measuring cups and spoons.

“When do you think it will end?” She asked, spinning to yell “ _Incarcerous_!” at a stool that had come to life, galloping towards them on its wooden legs. It stumbled to the ground, its legs moving uselessly against her spelled binds.

“What did it say again?” He shouted back, wrestling with a table cloth that had draped itself around him, tightening. She severed it with a charm and pulled his sleeve until he was back in their more protected circle. They were both breathing heavily.

“Just the thing about surviving the meal, there wasn’t a listed menu!”

“Every meal ends with dessert, right?” He said. “Seems like we’ll have to face off against a massive creme brûlée before we’re through.”

He was probably right, though she didn’t look forward to fighting with one of her favorite desserts. The barrage of attacks seemed to slow, and they could catch their breath a bit. Hermione’s hair had come almost entirely out of its plaits. Their clothes had dried somewhat from the heat of the hearth.

The air tasted of smoke from the hearth and their spells. A tang of metal from the silverware. A hint of flour. Everything had a certain haze to it from the heat.

Then they started coughing.

“What is that?” He asked, coughing into his elbow and pointing somewhere further toward the back of the kitchen.

Great plumes of white clouds drifted from the floor to the ceiling. Swirling against the stones and enveloping the counters and work tables. It looked like the exhaust from a bakery.

“It’s flour, I think,” Hermione said, pulling her jumper up over her nose. “Cover your mouth and get down!” She yanked on his sleeve and pulled him to the floor. He did as she said and summoned the work table towards them.

“It could be poisoned,” Malfoy said, voice muffled by the wool of his own jumper. “Shield charms?”

“Bubble head might be better.” She cast one on herself and when he frowned at her she knew he couldn’t remember the spell but was too proud to ask for help. So she did it for him.

The air around them was a fine mist of white powder, slowly dissipating over them and clinging to their clothes. But the bubble head charms held and they were able to breathe clearly. When the flour thickened, Hermione’s hand twitched toward where she knew Malfoy was crouched on the floor beside her. It was impossible to see anymore, but she wanted to be assured that he was still there. To make sure he knew that she was there, too. As her fingers grazed the edge of his sleeve she sent a cyclone of wind around them. Marvelling at the way it cut through the dust in the air until it was gone.

Their clothes were covered in flour. The first thing Malfoy did was remove it from both of them. They waited a few minutes, silent, until the coast seemed clear enough to remove the bubble head charm.

“What is all that noise,” said the Guardian. It hadn’t moved from its lounging position. “Have you no manners?”

“Us? Manners?” Malfoy stammered, gesturing to the debris around them.

“The Most Noble House of Nott is happy to host you,” the Guardian continued. “The third drawer on the left contains a valuable object for your stay.”

And then it closed its eyes once more and resumed its slumber. As soon as it took its first deep breath, the room righted itself. The broken dishes disappeared. The cutlery returned to its homes. The knives that were embedded in the table vanished. All was as it was when they entered the room. On the far wall a door appeared.

While they caught their breath she untangled her hair from the last little bits of plaiting at the roots. It had come undone throughout their ordeal. She cast a smoothing charm to tame the frizz and twirled a few curls around her wand until they fell as away from her face as they would ever get. The reflection in one of the copper pots proved passable. Then she noticed Malfoy looking at her, but acting like he wasn’t looking at her.

“What is with the stare, Malfoy?” She asked, combing through the ends with her fingers.

“Your hair—”

“Can you please not insult my hair right now,” she groaned. It was just like him to revert to his old jibes.

“I wasn’t—it’s—it looks different than it used to. That’s all.”

“Yes I finally learned how to use conditioner properly and mastered a few simple haircare spells. Incredible how well your observational skills have improved.”

“Not everything I say is meant to insult you, Granger. Stop twisting my words to fit your narrative,” he said. Then he crossed over to the drawer the Guardian indicated and removed a large scroll of parchment. He broke the purple wax seal and held it so that she could see it as well. At the top, in Nott Senior’s hand, it said:

> _You’ll need to keep your strength up._
> 
> _Should you hunger, ask and you shall be fed. Should you thirst, you will be watered._
> 
> _Simply ask for anything listed on this menu and it shall appear to you, free of enchantments or poison, for I am a gracious host._

Beneath his signature was an endless list of meals, sweets, wines, and other drinks. Hermione cast a detection spell over the ink, looking for falsehoods.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know how much of an appetite I have after that.”

Malfoy snorted. “Clearly you’ve never had a proper croque monsieur.” He rolled the parchment back up and led the way towards the door. When he opened it, Hermione expected to see the long hallway they traversed to get there. Instead it brought them right back to the study. As soon as her feet crossed the threshold the door to the kitchen shimmered away. Leaving nothing of its shape behind.

* * *

A low fire crackled in the grate of the study. The Guardian stalked its stretch of tapestry, keeping its curious amethyst eyes on them. It didn’t speak as it traversed its space. Draco threw himself onto the sofa and yanked his jumper over his head, laying it across one of the chairs so it didn’t wrinkle further. He’d use a pressing charm on it later. Granger perched at the opposite end and pulled a small vial from her charmed bag.

He watched as she carefully dabbed the potion against the cuts along her forearms and hands. The faint earthy smell and clear consistency told him it was essence of dittany. A distilled version. Cheaper to brew and cheaper to buy if you didn’t brew your own. Nowhere near the efficacy of the one he brewed himself. When she was finished with the cuts on her left arm she faltered for a moment, clearly unsure about using her opposite hand to perform the healing spells.

“I can help,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you want.”

She nodded, and held out her wand arm. He whispered the spells to seal the wounds, adding a few additional incantations to account for scarring. It took a little bit longer but he’d always thought it was worth the effort. Where a quick patch job always left scars, his work would heal cleanly.

“What’s that you’re doing?” She said, watching him.

“It’ll help with the scars,” he replied. It was a challenge to keep his eyes from the ones on her other arm. The cursed word carved into her skin. It made him think of his own scars. The ones that had been healed in a rush. There was no erasing them.

“The dittany should do that. It’s why I brought it.”

They’d shifted closer together on the couch, and his knee was only a few centimeters from her thigh where he’d twisted to face her. Something was new with her hair. The products she used or something. It smelled like shortbread and peppermint. When she’d tousled it in the kitchen he’d been caught off guard. All that was missing was the smell of roses, like the ones his mother tended to in the conservatory at the manor. Fresh parchment from _l'encre et le papier_ , his favorite stationery shop in Paris. The oaky undertones of a glass of double barrel Ogden’s. Crisp air, perfect for flying. Then it would be the exact smell that had curled into his nose from the amortentia Slughorn had shown them in sixth year. And curled deep into his memory. It was a coincidence that concerned him. All the times he’d seen her over the last few years had been unremarkable. This—this was new.

“Dittany will help scarring to an extent; this will ensure it,” he said, finishing with the wandwork and retreating back to his safe corner of the couch. Granger instead scooted closer and began to heal his own cuts, replicating what he’d done without so much as a lesson.

“Useful bit of signature magic,” she said, watching as the marks from the shattered plates stitched themselves up. Taking time on the gauged flesh of his knuckle, which had scraped against the flagstone when he upended the table.

“I don’t know if I’d call it a signature,” he said. “Most of my adjustments are just borrowed from other wizards I’ve read about.”

“But you’ve customized it to your needs.” She moved on to his face, where he’d felt the quick cuts in the moment but forgotten about it until now. Her fingers ghosted over his jaw and he tilted it for her before she needed to touch him. Saving her the disgust at having to feel his skin. “Very clever.”

He hadn’t ever thought of it as anything other than convenient. If he drew the ire of another Death Eater, or worse, if his mother did, he could reverse the damage. As if it had never happened. Though there were some injuries that rooted deep. Now it just seemed a useful bit of magic for the inevitable day when he pissed off the wrong person outside of a pub just by existing. By being outside of Azkaban with a tattoo on his left forearm.

“Brightest Witch of Her Age paying _me_ a compliment?” He said, and smirked at her. Letting a bit of playfulness in, despite the weight of the morning. They had a long day ahead of them. Or days. Or weeks. Or forever, according to the Guardian.

Granger bit back a smile he wished she’d let out. “Perhaps. I haven’t decided yet.”

“I believe you called my spell useful and me clever.”

“No, I said the _spell_ was useful and clever, there’s a difference.” She returned her weak vial of dittany to her bag and sank back against the cushions. Taking a few calming breaths with her eyes closed.

“So even though it’s my spell I’m neither of those things?”

With the weight of her full gaze she contemplated him for a moment, and he worked through a few rudimentary occlumency tactics to keep his face from betraying his thoughts. Her brown eyes sparkled in the firelight. Forbidden to him but enticing all the same.

“I suppose you’ll have to prove it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friend iconicnovel rewrote "Be Our Guest" for this chapter:
> 
> Be our guest
> 
> Be our guest
> 
> Put our service to the test
> 
> Throw a knife right to your chest, cherie
> 
> And get eternal rest


	5. Chapter 5

Time passed and still the next door hadn’t appeared. It seemed to Draco that Nott Manor operated on its own schedule. There was nothing to do but wait. Granger conjured a kettle from her endless satchel, along with a few cups made of hearty stoneware. Fine porcelain wouldn’t last long in the pit of chaos that was her bag.

When she handed him a mug he took the handle between his fingers and wrinkled his nose. If they were having tea it simply wouldn’t do. With a swish he transfigured it into delicate bone china, complete with saucer.

Granger snorted. “You’re predictable, you know.”

“Why? Because I had to learn manners and decorum?”

She sighed and rummaged through her bag. “Seems useless to ask what kind of tea you drink, since apparently whatever I give you won’t be good enough and you’ll just magic it into something else.”

“Granger, what you call predictable I call preferential. If I’m drinking tea I prefer a thinner vessel. That’s all. And I’d like Earl Grey, if you have it.”

“Sugar?” She asked, adding a few cubes to her own mug, facing away from him.

“Do you happen to have honey? Local is better for my allergies but I’ll settle for whatever you might have,” he said, tilting his head at her. He could get used to this game.

Wordlessly she summoned a small jar of honey and floated it over to him.

When the tea had steeped she poured for them both and added a splash of milk to hers. Wherever the honey was from, it complimented the tea perfectly. They sipped in relative silence. The window behind the desk showed the same view as when they’d arrive. It confirmed it was enchanted. There was also no clock. Neither of them wore a watch. Draco lamented that the pocket watch his father gave him when he turned thirteen was stuffed in a drawer somewhere at the Manor.

“No timepiece in that bag of yours?” He said, finishing the last of his tea before reverting his cup and saucer back to the stoneware mug Granger had given him.

She put it back in her bag and cleaned up the rest of their tea. “No such luck.”

They stared at the tapestry above the fire for a while. Watching the Guardian wear its path across it. Back and forth. Over and over. It was almost hypnotizing, the way it stalked the embroidered landscape. Draco found himself following the light against its scales, spilling across the forest floor. In that moment he realized that the sun must have changed position. Could tell that the branches were lit differently than they had been when they arrived.

“Granger,” he said, leaning forward to peer closer at the tapestry. “Look at the sun.”

Her shoulders jumped, and she stood, taking a few steps towards it. Standing on the tips of her toes to bring her face closer. He carefully joined her, though while she had to crane her neck he was eye-level with the Guardian.

“Judging by the sun’s position it’s about half noon, don’t you think?”

“I think so,” he replied, keeping his eyes on the dragon. The Guardian neither confirmed nor denied their guess. Instead it gave them a sly smile as it slunk out of frame. Off to hunt some stitched kneazle or burn a village.

Granger fiddled with the pendant around her neck. Pulling it across the chain and back. It made a soothing sound, and his eyes snagged on the silver and glass heirloom he’d given her. The stars etched beneath her fingers where she gripped it tightly.

A low rumble drew his attention to the opposite wall where at last a door began to materialize. It was made entirely of iron. This time he knew where the door would lead. He and Theo had often dared each other to get close to it when they were small. To touch it. Once, he’d even dared Theo to open it. He’d taken a few steps down before turning around and dragging Draco outside to fly for a while. In the open air.

Granger traced another rune on the door — _Hagalaz_. The wrath of nature. Draco mentally noted the deference from her first rune, which was for protection. He wondered if it was in response to what they’d just seen in the kitchens or if it was meant to represent their own wrath. Either way he didn’t ask her to explain.

“It leads to the dungeons,” he said. “I’m positive.” “I guess we’ll be facing something much worse than charmed dishes and clouds of poisonous flour,” Granger said, twirling her wand between her hands. “Do you…”

“Do I what?”

She swallowed. “Do you think there will be anyone in the dungeon? Now that we know it’s not a normal house…What if it could hide things from the aurors who searched it previously?”

Out loud Draco said it was unlikely but internally, he wondered. If they’d be face-to-face with the withered husk of an Order member. Someone she’d known. Or a poor, unsuspecting Muggle who got in the way. He shrugged on his jumper, stepped in front of her, and pulled the door open.

Inside was endless darkness. The light from the study showed the first of many stairs descending down to the lowest level of the estate. A torch hung on the wall. They both lit their wands, and as his foot touched the first step the torch flamed to life. He lifted it from the wall and began to lead the way down the stairs. They spiralled tightly. There were no windows. No other light but that from their wands and the torch in his right hand. He could feel Granger just behind him. The halt in her breaths. The swoop of her wand light, from one wall to the next, lighting their feet as they stepped further down.

Their descent echoed on the stones. The air grew cold and sharp. He could hear a distant drip of water. It felt as thought they’d walked several storeys underground by the time the spiraled corridor ended. Instead of another door, like with the kitchen, they were immediately deposited in the dungeons.

They were more extensive than what Theo had plotted out. Directly in front of them was a long hall of cells. There was another to their left. Even more to their right. They seemed endless. Cold, black water dripped from the walls and ceiling, leaving little puddles on the slick floor. Draco placed the torch in a holder beside the stairwell. It lit a few other torches along the walls. They stood in the middle of the antechamber, keeping the stairs to their back until, with a groan, they disappeared.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Granger looked determined. The grip on her wand unyielding. He strained his ears, listening for the sounds of a prisoner. If there was anyone down here, he didn’t want her to have to see it. To wonder what had happened to them. If they were still living. If they were magical or Muggle.

They swept their wands over the space. If the dungeons were indeed a maze, Draco didn’t think they had much room for error.

“I can’t find the Guardian,” she said. “Usually it’s in the main part of the room.”

“There must not be one down here,” he replied. As he was about to tell her his reasoning an echoing thud of footsteps sounded from deep within the dungeons.

Granger sucked in a sharp breath and subconsciously stepped closer to him.

The rough scrape of a chain dragged against the stone floor.

“Put out your wand,” she said, her voice barely audible. He did what she said. The only light came from the scattered torches.

Without a word he pushed her to the left until they were flat against the wall. He kept her behind him, using his right arm to hold her as close to the stones as possible.

He felt her breath ghost his ear. “It’s not human,” she whispered. “Bipedal, so either a giant or a troll.”

The Dark Lord had lured several giants to his “cause” but many had abandoned him before the final battle. And they never met indoors. “Troll seems more likely,” he whispered back.

The footsteps and dragging of the chain was joined by heavy breathing. A stuttering intake of air that seemed to get caught in its throat. Draco stretched his neck and strained his eyes to peer down the hall. He moved on silent feet, closer to the sound. A sharp tug against his sleeve from Granger. He waved her off, feeling her close behind.

“First year,” he whispered over his shoulder, “with Quirrell. That was a mountain troll?”

The whole school knew that she’d marched off on her own to face a troll. A bull-headed eleven-year-old with enough superiority to think going after a troll, alone, wasn’t a suicide mission.“It was more luck than anything,” she breathed back.

Draco thought about what they’d learned about trolls in school. What he’d read about when he spent most of his time with his mother in the library, away from the Dark Lord and his disciples who took over their home. It was one of the only rooms on the first floor that they tended to leave alone. So he’d read. A lot. Trolls weren’t very bright. But they did have a taste for human flesh, and Draco very much preferred to keep all of his appendages.

“That troll — at Hogwarts — it smelled something foul,” she whispered quickly, following him as he slunk into one of the cells.

“And?”

“Before it found me in the bathroom I could smell it. Like old socks and—“

The creature groaned, swinging the chain across the floor. It clattered against the iron bars of one of the cells. Draco pushed her further behind him and she pushed back, trying to stay shoulder to shoulder with him.

There, a few cells away, stood a small troll with pale green skin. Its hair was the color of pond scum, matted to its round head. It seemed hunched and stunted, perhaps from years spent wandering the dungeons. Likely living off of rats and the occasional doxy or garden gnome that got stuck down here. Based on its coloring, it must have been a forest troll. 

Draco swallowed and carefully slid out of the cell, keeping his eyes on the troll. It was looking curiously at one of the torches. The flames lit its face, beady little eyes and a snout that dripped onto its skin. With a grunt it reached for the flame and burnt its hand.

It roared in frustration and ripped the torch from the wall, tossing it into the nearest cell where it extinguished. It wore ragged trousers, torn in places and held to its malnourished body by a length of rope. The chain they’d heard was attached to an iron fetter around one of its ankles. It held the other end of it pinched between its fingers. Swinging it occasionally and letting it drag across the floor.

“We need to knock it out,” Draco whispered, annoyed that Granger had once again forced her way back to his side instead of behind him. The troll tossed another torch. The firelight must have hurt its eyes. Soon the only light was from the torch behind them, where the stairs had been. They tiptoed across the hall, intending to get away from the troll enough to think through a strategy. But the stones were uneven and Draco felt it when she tripped. Heard her knee crack against the floor as her fingers grazed his arm on the way down. Her wand clattered into the dark and she gasped.

The troll jerked towards them and sniffed on the air.

_Fuck_ , he thought, and reached out to help her up just as the troll lumbered towards them as fast as it could, a roar on its breath.

“Stupefy!” Draco shouted, and his spell hit the troll in its chest, halting its steps. It wasn’t a particularly powerful stunner, just enough to stall it so he could help Granger.

“My wand,” she said. Neither of them bothered whispering anymore. He summoned it and she caught it in midair, then sent her own stunning spell towards the troll. It stumbled back and she grabbed Draco’s sleeve and pulled him around the corner.

“It’s probably been down here for years,” he said. “It’s thinner than most and hates the light.”

“Right,” she said, then took a deep breath and ran back towards the creature.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he mumbled and followed her.

“Lumos maxima!” she yelled, and aimed the light straight for the troll’s eyes. It staggered back and landed on its rump. As she turned back, a grin across her face, the troll swung its arm out and flung her into one of the cells. Then it knocked Draco over in his haste to help her.

His head smacked on the stone floor and he saw stars. Blinking to clear them he looked for the troll. It had lumbered into the cell where Granger had landed. She skittered across the floor, trying to get away from it. Until she was cornered.

The troll stumbled — half blinded from her spell. Just as it reached out for her Draco fired a powerful stunner at its back. It swayed then started to fall.

“Granger, move!”

She dove to the side, just as the forest troll toppled to the floor. Its head bounced once on the stones. Its mouth fell open. A foul odor emanated from it. Like stagnant water.

Draco stepped over it and reached for Granger, tugging her to her feet. She was breathing heavily and staring at the troll, her skin pale.

“Alright?” He asked, his hands lightly gripping her elbows. It was like watching her come out of a trance. She blinked rapidly and dragged her eyes from the floor to where he held her then nodded.

“I just…It reminded me of the last one,” she said.

“But you defeated that one,” he started to say but she cut him off.

“I didn’t—I froze. Harry and Ron…” she shook her head and brushed her hair from her face. Her hands were scraped and shook slightly. Without thinking he held them with one hand and turned her head to face him with the other.

“You’re alright, Granger,” he said. Her eyes shut and she took a few breaths, nodding once more. Then she stepped away from him and retrieved her wand.

“What should we do about it?” She said, jerking her chin towards the troll. It was out cold.

“Do you think this was our task? To…kill it?”

She contemplated for a moment, flexing the fingers of her hands. “Even if that’s what we’re supposed to do I don’t think it’s right.”

Of course she didn’t.

“Perhaps we could…free it. Somehow,” he offered, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Maybe there’s a window somewhere? Or maybe the door’s appeared?” She pushed past him into the hall, and when he’d cleared the cell she closed its door and conjured a large padlock to keep it closed. With wave of her wand she returned all of the torches to the walls and relit them. Then she lit her wand and shined the light on the rear wall. It was still hard stone.

“Stay close and we can check down here,” he said, gesturing to the left hall. They explored it in silence, tensed for another attack. But all was quiet. Just the occasional drip of water from a corner or the squeak of a mouse. They reached the end and turned back, then searched the hall to the right. It was much the same. They searched the main row of cells again. At the very back was a wooden door.

“Do you think—?” She asked and he shrugged, then opened it with a quick spell.

It wasn’t the way out. Instead of the study, they were faced with a small office of sorts. It was cramped — just a short stool and a table. An old stub of a candle. And a window the size of a paperback novel. Covered in vines.

“Probably spelled so we can’t open it,” he said, as Granger set about testing it. Even if it could open, they’d never fit through it, let alone a forest troll, no matter how stunted.

She sighed and cricked her neck. There, on the wall, was a small metal dragon’s head. In its mouth was a ring of keys. Draco snatched them — they were for the cells. As soon as the metal had pulled away from the dragon’s mouth its eyes opened. They were a glowing purple.

“Guardian,” he said, taking a step closer. It nodded. And waited. “We defeated the troll.”

The Guardian looked between them and nodded again.

“Is that all?” Draco asked. “Was that our task?”

It merely stared. Then it nodded once more.

“Maybe we just needed the keys?” Granger said. “We should go back and see if the door’s returned.”

Draco kept her at his side just in case there was something lurking in the shadows behind them on their way to the antechamber. When they reached the cell with the troll she stopped and looked in at it, snagging her lip between her teeth.

“Out with it,” he said, though he had an inkling of what she was thinking.

“I don’t…It’s not right to leave it here. Forest trolls thrive in green places. They’re much more docile than mountain trolls and they…attack humans less than river trolls. We should do something.”

It was a wonder she didn’t push paper in the Magical Creatures department. This would be just the kind of thing that she’d campaign for. Rescuing violent beasts and beings and rehabilitating them. Draco sighed. He glanced over his shoulder to find the iron door waiting for them against the wall.

“What do you suggest we do then, Granger? Levitate it up the stairs? Keep it in the study while we continue our journey through this house of horrors?” He pocketed the keys and kept one of his hands in his pocket. Afraid that if he didn’t he’d cross his arms and seem standoffish instead of just mildly annoyed.

“I don’t think it would fit in the stairway,” she said, twisting and twirling her wand.

Draco closed his eyes. There was their emergency Portkey. They could activate it and send the troll to the field office in Dover, but then they’d either be without their only way out or they’d be in Dover with a forest troll and a surely pissed off Auror to greet them. Robards made it clear that they were to use it only if their lives were in danger. A few bruises and a displaced troll didn’t really qualify. There was one other option.

He cleared his throat and Granger looked at him. “Tippy,” he said clearly. With a pop, the house elf appeared in front of him. The uniform his mother had custom made for her pristine. The Malfoy crest embroidered on the chest.

“Yes, sir?” The elf asked, blinking her huge eyes at him. Then she seemed to take in their location and her tone abruptly became concerned. “What is you doing in a place like this?”

“Tippy, this is Granger,” he said, nodding towards her. “She’s very concerned about this troll.”

“A troll?” Tippy said, jumping backwards when she noticed the creature in the cell.

“Yes,” he said. Granger watched them with narrowed eyes. “Could you please take the troll to— Granger, where should it go?”

She gaped at him for a moment then shook her head. “Tippy shouldn’t have to travel a long distance with…that. We’re not far from Hatfield Forest. There are known trolls there, so the Ministry is already aware of a population.”

Draco nodded. “Right. Hatfield Forest, then. Tippy can you handle that? Just bring it there and then you’re free to return to the Manor.”

Tippy looked from Draco to the troll and back. “Master hardly ever calls for Tippy and this is what he asks of Tippy?”

He smirked. “Tell you what,” he said, crouching down to be level with her. “When I’m finished with this mission, you can come to the flat and make tea for me.”

The elf lit up at that and said, “Really?”

He held his hand out and nodded.

“Twice a week,” she bargained. “For a month.” It made him chuckle. She always did drive a hard bargain. They shook on it. All in front of a puzzled Granger.

“I—You—“ she shook her head, curls bouncing, “Thank you, Tippy.”

Tippy inclined her head, then strode towards the troll’s cell. Granger removed the lock and opened the door for her. With a last look the elf placed one hand on the troll’s head and snapped her fingers with the other. And then they were gone.

“Right, let’s get out of here,” Draco said, removing the keys from his pocket. He smiled to himself as he heard Granger scramble to catch up to him.

“You can’t be serious,” she said behind him.

“Sorry, did you want to stay in this cold, dank dungeon for another minute?”

She gripped his arm to stop his steps. “You know what I mean,” she said.

He looked at her hand on his arm then at her shaken face. “I really don’t.”

“That was a house elf.”

“Yes, well spotted.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Granger pushed him where she’d held his sleeve and folded her arms. “Turn it into some sort of joke just because I asked a question.”

He stopped in front of the door, fiddling with the ring of keys. They were all the same — crudely shaped iron. He began to try them in the lock. “What about it.”

“I thought all Death Eater house elves were freed after the war.”

“They were. Tippy is a free elf. All of the elves my mother employs are free.” The first three keys didn’t work. He kept trying.

“And you…pay them?”

“Yes. They’re on salary and they have their own quarters, though they always had that. And they’re allowed holidays but they’re not thrilled by that idea.” He tried a few more keys, waiting for the next round of questions. When they didn’t come he chanced a look at her, and raised a brow. She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t place. “What? You’re gaping.”

She pursed her lips and uncrossed her arms, though her fists were tight. “I was not.”

“Sure,” he said, and at last he found the right key. It turned in the lock and there was a loud click.

“How was she able to get inside the house? I know elf magic works differently but—”

“Nott Manor always had house elves. The wards must allow for them.”

“Thank you,” she said. There was a bruise forming on one of her cheekbones. “For doing that. The troll.”

He shrugged and said, “Seemed important to you.” Then he shouldered the door open. It brought them back to the study and he was grateful to avoid the seemingly endless stairs. Going down wasn’t bad but climbing back up would have been especially difficult after being thrown around a dungeon. He wanted a drink and a nap.

“That’s why I appreciate it,” she said, shutting the door behind her. It faded away almost instantly. “Most people don’t understand why I care so much about creatures they deem beneath them.”

He thought back to school, when she’d been the champion for house elves and whatever beings Hagrid had brought to the grounds. Potter and Weasley seemed to like the easy grade of Magical Creatures class but they never really supported her other ventures when it came to beasts and beings.

“You like to help those who can’t help themselves,” he said, thinking of the way she’d always stood up for Longbottom before he hit puberty and developed a spine. She nodded.

“It seems fairly obvious to me but not everyone gets it. They think I have a martyr complex or that I just don’t understand that this is the way things have always been.” She sighed and removed her satchel, then began rummaging in it before finally summoning what she was looking for. The jar of diluted dittany. Half empty already. “But just because things have always been one way doesn’t mean that’s the right way. Or the only way.”

Her cheeks had pinked, and she looked up at him through her lashes. And he knew there was more to her words than what she was saying. That she was looking for an answer to a question she wouldn’t ask him aloud.

“Sometimes it takes a bit of growing up—learning that there’s not just one way of thinking,” he said. “It might just take some a little longer to realize it.”

She smiled softly at him, and even though her clothes were torn and her face was bruised, he thought she was lovely.

The edge of his folio was beneath his fingers. “Actually,” he said, pulling the leather carrying case from his pocket. “I’ve something better for that.” He pointed at the potion in her hand. She stilled and waited for him to continue.

First he removed the shrinking charm, then he laid the folio out across the desk. All the vials of potions neatly contained within it. Then he reached for one of the vials of his own dittany, brewed in the potions lab at the Manor a few days before their mission.

“It’s more potent,” he said, holding it out to her. When she took it their fingers brushed, and he didn’t look away.


	6. Chapter 6

The Guardian was still away. Judging by the light in the sky of the tapestry it was nearing twilight, and they were no closer to discovering all of the Manor’s secrets. Granger applied murtlap essence and dittany to her scrapes and bruises. The mottled purple mark on her cheek fading back to the soft tone of her skin. This time she didn’t need his help.

Other than some soreness Draco felt relatively fine after their trip to the dungeons. Though he was still shaken at the thought of Granger’s frozen face, backed into the corner, eyes wide as she looked up at the troll. He’d not known her to be afraid before. The classic Gryffindor bravery was always on display. If he’d been seconds behind, what would have happened to her? Would she have snapped out of it or would she have been hurt?

Granger cleared her throat, snagging his attention. Then she abruptly glanced away and worried her bottom lip. He could practically hear the buzzing from her brain. She looked like she was about to change her mind and keep whatever she wanted to say to herself.

“You’ll give yourself an aneurysm if you keep thinking that loudly,” he said, leaning against the back of his chair. Tipping his head against it to flick his eyes to the ceiling before meeting her own. “Just ask whatever you’re trying to ask.”

“The elf you called,” she started, and he held onto all of the patience he possessed to wait for her to continue. “She’s—is she your elf?”

“She works for the household, for my mother. But yes, Tippy is who I call on when I have a need,” he replied. Watching her absorb the new information. Different from how she catalogued a lecture in school.

“It seemed like you’re close. Friendly, even—”

“And why wouldn’t I be friendly with someone I’ve known all my life?”

“Well, because she’s a house elf and you’re…I guess I just assumed that because of Dobby—”

He sighed. He’d forgotten about her connection to that elf. “Dobby caused a lot of destruction and didn’t quite…fit. He was the exception, not the rule. And even then it was my father—I won’t try to justify it but what you saw second year wasn’t indicative of how our elves are treated. You can inquire at the Ministry for their full report, if you wish.”

She didn’t react other than to nod in thought for a moment. “She said you don’t call her much.”

Draco nodded. Hoping that would be sufficient but knowing it wouldn’t be.

“Why is that?”

The fire was warm. A new door to unknown horror hadn’t appeared and clearly they needed to rest whenever the opportunity presented itself. So he reached down and pulled off his dragon leather boots, setting them to the side of the wingback chair. Then he threw his good posture out the window to bring one foot onto the cushion and rest his arm against his knee. Leaning even further back to take a few breaths.

“Because my flat would only upset her and then she’d start knitting things for me,” he said, tilting his head to watch her reaction. “I’m not really in the market for mittens.”

“I can’t believe she got you to make a bargain with her,” Granger said, laughing a little. “What’s so bad about your flat? Dodgy neighborhood?”

“Neighborhood’s pleasant enough. It’s just empty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s more minimalist than even that word implies.”

“Can’t imagine Draco Malfoy sleeping on anything other than a luxurious four-poster with a dozen pillows,” she said. When was the last time she’d said his first name? Had she ever? Had he?

He looked at her a little too long and tore his gaze to the fire. “Of course I have a four-poster, Granger, I’m not a plebeian. I just don’t see the point in trying to make a home in a city I’ll never be welcome in.”

It was the wrong thing to say. The kind of thing he thought regularly but didn’t voice aloud, even to Theo.

“People will see you’re making an effort. I’m sure over time—”

“Don’t,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. Pressing against his temples. “I already know you pity me by your eyes. If you add words to it—just don’t, Granger. Talk to me about Potter and his Weasley or something else I can endure.”

Something flashed across her face and then, to his surprise, she smiled. “Maybe I can tell you one thing. But only to improve your mood.”

He quirked a brow at her. “Now I’m intrigued. Out with it.”

“I suppose you don’t keep up with the gossip—”

“I’d rather not read whatever it is Skeeter writes about my family. I avoid her new rag.” It was a tabloid, exclusively filled with whatever sensationalist stories she came up with that week. After the first few months of it he lost count of how many things he was hiding from the public. That he was secretly part Veela. That he was broke. That he’d purchased a champagne vineyard and as soon as his probation was up he would leave Britain. That one was inspiring, at least.

“Well, she still writes about us—about Harry, quite a lot.”

“If you’re dragging this out for suspense you’re taking too long—”

“They’re not together anymore. Ginny sort of…left him,” she paused, and he almost chastised her again until she added, “for Cho Chang.”

“Oh?” His mood improved instantly. It was ironic, really, that the two girls Potter had shown interest in at school would find their way to each other. Perhaps on the quidditch pitch, like Theo’s grander fantasies from when they were in school. Before the youthful jokes and theories were replaced with whispered warnings and nods of understanding in seventh year. Back when fun was normal and laughter didn’t feel like a luxury.

“It was only a little bit awkward at the Burrow last Christmas.”

“They were _both_ there? Can’t imagine having both of your exes holding hands in front of you. Maybe Potter really is a saint.”

“No, no it was just the family, me, and Harry. He’s surprisingly okay with it, actually. I think they grew up, grew apart,” she said, and he wondered if that applied to her, too. “There’s always been a lot of…pressure on both of us to join the Weasley family permanently. Harry’s in the clear now, at least.”

“What about you?”

She chuckled. “What about me?”

“Seems like you’re part of the family. With your own Weasley—”

“Ronald and I both more than moved on. It’s been over two years, surely you know that much. We had to make an announcement in the _Prophet_ just to quell the gossip—”

“I meant the older one,” he said, and she merely stared at him. Like she had no idea what he was talking about. “You’re always together.” Flirting. Getting drinks. Standing in front of his desk.

Thinking for a moment she furrowed her brow. “Percy works at the Ministry and will occasionally stop by to say hello. Sometimes we’ll compare Arithmancy theories. And Charlie’s been assisting the Magical Creatures department with a dragon problem. I’ve seen him in passing, at work.”

“And at pubs,” Draco said under his breath.

“I’m not dating Charlie, if that’s what you’re implying.” It might have been the light or it might have been his imagination but she blushed. “Besides, he’s not really my type.”

Given her dating history he wondered what her type even was. All they had in common was quidditch, a subject she deemed unworthy of her attention. Charlie Weasley had a similar build as Krum, and obviously similar looks to his younger brother. More roguish, maybe. Hadn’t she briefly dated McLaggen in sixth year? Perhaps she liked being with someone intellectually beneath her, though he doubted it was exhilarating. He certainly grew bored of witches who couldn’t keep up. Not that he had many options.

“We should rest while we can. Maybe eat something,” Granger said, clearly done with the subject. He pushed it from his mind and took a clearing breath. Letting his thoughts filter back beneath the occlumency he’d been neglecting in her presence.

“Right. Shall we order?” He said, summoning the menu they were given in the kitchens. It was extensive, and other than their tea earlier he hadn’t eaten much of anything in the last day. He’d been anxious about the mission and instead occluded the night before, once he got back to his flat after another round of drinks with Theo.

He barely had a minute to decide on a starter when she snatched the parchment from his hands and began reading it over, muttering things as she went. 

“You of all people should know that the majority of these can be easily poisoned,” she said, pulling what looked to be a Muggle writing implement from her endless satchel. As she went on about the more dangerous options that should therefore be avoided she made little marks on the parchment. “Regardless of what the Guardian told us, I don’t trust anything in this house. And you shouldn’t either.”

Draco opened his potions kit and produced a vial. “I understand being careful but a drop of this can detect any poison. We should just order one of everything and have a feast. It’s obvious we’ll be here for a while, we may as well plan for it. Decide what’s worth eating.”

“But that’s wasteful!”

“You were just convinced all of the food is poisoned and that we should live off of whatever stale biscuits you have in that bag of yours and now you’re worried about wasting the food you refuse to eat,” he drawled. “Do you hear yourself?” Her lips pursed and she took the poison detector potion and held it to the light.

Watching her doubt his brewing abilities made him contemplate ordering a bottle of wine but he didn’t think she’d be the type to drink on the job and if he said it was for himself, well, he’d look like more of a lush than he was. Then again, even Granger imbibed after a long day of work, given her frequency at the Leaky Cauldron. He lamented that he didn’t think to add some Ogden’s to his potion kit. It would have at least helped to calm his nerves. Settle the anxious fluttering in his stomach. A potion in its own right.

“Fine,” she said at last, pressing the parchment against his chest until he took it. “Order us something and we’ll deal with it when it arrives. Just one meal, Malfoy. Until we know for sure.”

Then she examined the rest of his potions kit, trailing her fingers over the little labels he’d written. She’d had a point about certain foods being easier to poison — anything remotely liquid, obviously, but some poisons could be distilled and modified within a solvent and then transformed into a powder. In theory, all of their options had a level of risk. Any half decent potioneer could brew an odorless and tasteless potion. But they’d exhausted themselves physically and would need something hearty to eat. Much as he had a taste for the finer foods he remembered eating in this house when he was younger, reason won out. He cleared his throat and said, “A ploughman’s board and two shepherd’s pies. Please.” His mother raised him to be polite, after all.

With a pop, food began to appear on the large desk. The ploughman’s board, artfully arranged on a large platter, came first. Followed by a pile of raw vegetables, meat, a sack of flour, butter, and some other things he didn’t recognize. Draco stared at it. Then he looked at Granger, who laughed, a quick breath of a laugh that turned into an outright fit of giggles. “Sorry!” She said, though she continued to laugh to herself. Lips pulled into a grin. “It must just be the ingredients for everything because there are no elves to prepare it. Since they were freed.”

“Right,” he said, pushing his jaw tighter. “Hilarious.” He tested all of it using his potion. Then she performed a series of her own spells before deeming it safe.

Raw carrots would be fine but as for the rest, he’d never bothered with cooking. It was a Muggle skill and neither of his parents knew culinary magic to share with him. Most of his meals were from takeaway places in his neighborhood or near the Ministry. At least he’d had the sense to order the cheese board. Perhaps there was still time to ask for more. He could live on salads for however long they’d be here.

“I’m not the best with pastry,” she said, waving her wand and conjuring bowls and cutting boards and setting the ingredients to start peeling and chopping themselves. Then she quickly pulled her hair back at her nape. “Baking is so much harder than cooking isn’t it? All the precise measurements. You’d think my potion aptitude would come in handy with it but for some reason I’m just more comfortable brewing Polyjuice than making dough.”

He watched her chop and stir and set things into a cauldron over the fire with efficiency.

“You cook?” He asked.

“Molly — Mrs. Weasley, she taught me a few things. I tend to prioritize work over food so most of my meals are pretty rudimentary. I hope a stew’s okay,” she said, vanishing the flour and other baking ingredients.

He tried to memorize what she did while she cooked. It seemed similar to brewing a potion, though the cuts of the vegetables weren’t as precise as he would have done. She kept looking in the cauldron, assessing her concoction, before moving on to the next step. Adding spices and salt. Some sort of green herb.

Soon the study smelled savory and he’d started to pick at the cheese and bread, smearing chutney over each bite. Granger produced a flask from her bag and poured large glasses of water for them with an _aguamenti_ spell.

When the meal was ready she served him a large bowl of stew, steam curling into the air. It burned his mouth but it was good. Like a deconstructed shepherd’s pie. It was slightly better than the food he’d get at the Scroll & Raven. They ate in silence for a few minutes until she broke it to ask about his poison detector potion. She questioned him on its make and method, eyes bright with questions.

“I don’t get to do much with potions anymore,” she said between bites. Though he’d conjured napkins for them, hers remained tight in her hand instead of on her lap. “It’s one of the subjects I’ve neglected most since Hogwarts.”

“Guess that makes sense. Cursed objects don’t often overlap with potions. Unless the vessel itself is cursed.”

“Yes, exactly. Mostly I get to translate runes and write equations. Lot of charm work, which keeps things interesting.”

Draco finished his bowl and got a second helping, his missed meals catching up to his stomach. “Cursebreakers travel a lot,” he said as he offered to get her another serving.

“A fair bit, but I’m still pretty green so most of my assignments are in Britain.”

“Do you wish you got to go anywhere more exciting?” He asked. “Like Egypt or Australia or Japan or something?”

The edge of her shoulders curved inward, and she took a measured drink of water. “Maybe one day,” she said. “For now I’m not really looking for that much adventure.”

“Right. Just trolls and spelled kitchens with a former Death Eater in a house that won’t let you leave. Walk in the park,” he said, smirking slightly. She returned it weakly, and he wondered what it was that he’d said to ruin her playful mood. While she stood and vanished the rest of the stew from the cauldron and cleaned it, he cleared the desk of the remnants of their meal.

Then she made tea and he moved the conversation back to potions. Granger seemed most interested in the modifications Draco had made to several of the standard recipes in his kit.

“The thing about Dreamless Sleep is it loses its efficacy if you take it too frequently at the recommended dose. Increasing the dose isn’t recommended for a lot of reasons — horrible longterm side effects. But if you suspend a few drops within a standard calming draught—”

“How do you stop them from mixing together in the vial? The viscosity—”

“They have to be added at room temperature. If the calming draught is still too warm from the flames it just sort of absorbs the Dreamless Sleep. And you can’t let a calming draught cool too much, or it separates,” he explained, talking with his hands more than he usually did. It wasn’t like he could discuss potions with any of his friends.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’ve experimented with potions. You had a perfect score on the N.E.W.T.—” Granger turned red and took a long drink of tea.

“How do you know that?” Scores were confidential. He hadn’t even shared his with his parents.

She didn’t answer, just went about her task of spreading out parchment on the surface of the desk and making marks on the map Theo drew them.

He prodded her from across the desk. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she replied, turning away from him. Organizing her notes. Shuffling them and putting them into piles. Stalling.

“How do you know my scores, Granger?”

She finished what she was writing and flicked her eyes to him then back to her paper. “Because I sponsored you.”

“Sponsored me? What does that mean? I never agreed to that.” Aurors already checked on him regularly and that was invasive enough.

She sighed and pulled the hem of her jumper, refusing to meet his eye. Speaking quicker. “It means that I knew you would do well so I agreed to sponsor your education and in the event that you...misbehaved before or during the exams I would have been responsible.”

“How could _you_ be held responsible for my alleged bad behavior? On what grounds?”

There was a brief flicker of something in her brown eyes before she stepped further away, behind the desk, and said, “I made a deal with Kingsley.”

“What kind of a deal?”

“It doesn’t matter it was years ago.”

He pressed closer, crowding her. The desk chair between them. “What kind of a deal, Granger?”

First she glared at him, then she put her hands at her hips. “If you must know, if you didn’t pass I would have lost my clearance with the Department of Mysteries.”

It felt like being nailed in the stomach by a bludger. For someone like Granger, the Department of Mysteries was a playground. The witches and wizards who worked in it were the best mentors. Lots of complex magics and secrets to discover. For her to lose access to such a resource because of him made his fist curl at his side. “Why?”

“Because I had to offer something of value to get them to agree to your right to sit the exams.” She gripped the edge of the desk, fingertips tight against the wood.

“No, why did you do it?”

“Because you’re smart. You always were, beneath it all. I know your marks were just as high as mine. Sometimes higher, in potions but Professor Snape wasn’t…And you deserved to finish your schooling just like the rest of the students in our year.”

“Because I got good marks you decided to interfere in my life? I never asked—”

“No, I interfered because it was what was right. If you couldn’t take the exams you wouldn’t have been able to get a job or—”

“I can’t get a job even with the bloody N.E.W.T.s! My whole position is conditional.” He was louder now, not quite yelling but building up to it.

“Your _bloody N.E.W.T.s_ are the reason you get to fulfill your probation requirements in the auror department to begin with, Malfoy! It’s why you hold that position.”

“So what, you recommended me to work some desk job right in the middle of Magical Law Enforcement? Perfect place for someone like me, yeah? If I got the itch to curse someone at least Potter would be there to arrest me, was that it?”

“Why are you acting like this?” She shouted, so he shouted back.

“I’m not acting like anything—”

“Yes you are!”

“It’s my life,” he said, returning to a normal volume and narrowing his eyes at her.

“And you would have wasted it if you didn’t have your N.E.W.T.s, you know it as well as I do.”

“It’s none of your business if I did,” he spat. How could she have been so reckless? Tying herself to someone like him.

“Well, it’s a little late for that, Malfoy, I guess you’ll have to get over it.”

“I’m just trying to understand your reasoning for risking your career for me when you never—” he abruptly closed his mouth and looked away. Before he said something stupid.

“But it didn’t feel like a risk,” she said softly. “Not really. I knew you’d score well and with your aptitude for dueling and charmwork it seemed like a good career fit for you. So I mentioned it to Harry and he talked to Robards. It wouldn’t have been fair — to expect you to have a life without finishing school.”

“And what about the other pitiful Slytherins? Did Longbottom agree to sponsor Parkinson so she could sit her exams? Did I miss Potter offering to sponsor Theo?”

“You were the only one to take the mark,” she said, and he flinched at her bluntness. “It wasn’t fair of the board of governors to exclude you for something you were forced into when you weren’t of age.”

His one saving grace. Being underage and coerced. How lucky.

“So because it was only fair? It’s all about what was right? That’s all?”

She exhaled through her nose and yanked a book from the shelf behind her, crossing quickly to the other end of the room. “Yes. That’s all.”

They were quiet for a time. Granger flipped through whatever title she’d pulled from the bookshelf. Draco again considered asking their enchanted menu for a firewhiskey. Instead he watched the flames and tried to tell what hour it was by squinting at the tapestry. He could just make out some moonlight but it was obscured by the trees.

“How do you know I had better marks in potions than you?” He asked, breaking the silence. She’d moved to the sofa, her legs curled beneath her as she read her book.

“I may have glanced at your essay on shrinking potions in fifth year. Professor Snape gave you top marks. I lost a point for going over length.”

“Looking over my shoulder to compare grades then?” He wasn’t ready to accept her explanation. It nagged at him. The possible reasons she wasn’t saying. The other things she might know about him but kept hidden.

He didn’t hear her reply. Couldn’t occlude effectively when things were this clouded. She must have only made a statement and not asked him something else because she returned to her book. It let him go back to trying to clear his head. For a while he was able to focus on the flames and his breaths, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind.

Eventually they decided to try to sleep for a few hours. A new door had yet to appear and neither of them would be ready to face whatever came next without some decent sleep.

“You should take the sofa,” he said as he shrugged his jumper over his head and folded it on the desk. Then he untucked his shirt to be more comfortable.

“Oh, no you’re taller,” she said, standing awkwardly in front of it and looking away from him. “I can manage on one of the chairs. I’ve slept in far worse conditions, usually in my office.” Draco looked at her while she rambled, then flicked his wand and transfigured one of the chairs into a comfortable lounge. With a rather fluffy pillow, just to show off.

Granger extinguished the lights, leaving just the glowing embers in the fireplace. The Guardian hadn’t returned. They both settled themselves on their makeshift beds, cutting any semblance of a formal goodnight short. He thought about the vial of Dreamless Sleep in his kit. Of letting the potion rob him of consciousness and the last few hours of conversation.

For a while he stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the dying fire and waiting for her breaths to slow. When he glanced over at her she was curled against the back of the couch, arms wrapped around herself. Breath even and slow, a shiver on the exhale. With a bit of wandless magic he summoned his scarf from the coatrack she’d made them when they arrived. Then he transfigured it into a blanket and padded over to her side of the room. He let the blanket fall over her, gently unfolding the end and draping it over her shoulders. Curls tickling the back of his hand. The lounge was comfortable enough for his legs to stretch out to the end. He punched his pillow down. Covering his eyes with his ink-stained arm, he tried to stop the thoughts from racing behind them.


	7. Chapter 7

She dreamt of the night letters were carved into her skin. Usually, when she had a nightmare, it was of the cruciatus. The pain shivering through her veins, drawing her up from below before slamming her back down in endless agony. But this time was different. This time she lay on the floor of a drawing room, watching the light reflected on the chandelier. Blood trickled from the cuts on her arm, warm rivulets that stung. And then she felt the cool rinse of dittany. It was a potion that, when applied, had a unique temperature and feeling on the skin. She watched the letters fade beneath long fingers, heard the whispered incantations, and as she blinked up at his pale face, the dream slipped away from her.

It was dark in Theodore Nott, Sr.’s study. The fire had long burnt out. Malfoy seemed to still be asleep on the lounge he’d transfigured himself. Forearm covering his face and long limbs stretched out on the velvet. Perfectly still. As she sat up a blanket pooled at her waist. It was softest cashmere, a beautiful dove grey. The exact shade of the scarf Malfoy had been wearing when they arrived. She folded it and draped it over the back of the sofa. Running her hand over it one last time before sorting through her bag.

There were things she thought she’d get to keep secret. From her Muggle neighbors, that she was a witch. Her use of the time turner in third year. And the fact that she’d risked her own career to convince the Minister for Magic and therefore the Hogwarts Board of Governors to allow Draco Malfoy to take the N.E.W.T.s.

The Sorting Hat sang many songs, and while none of them were dulcet they were lyrically memorable. Fifth year, in particular, with its call for unity among the Houses. The worry that sorting did more harm than good. Hermione herself had taken a long time to be sorted. And while she might have the courage of her own House, she had the sharp mind of a Ravenclaw, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff, and the ambition of a Slytherin, too. Being put in a box, labelled as solely one thing for the rest of one’s life, simply wasn’t fair.

He was never supposed to know. No one was. That was her arrangement with Kingsley when she’d gone to his office on a hot day in July three years ago. When she demanded his secretary find time for a meeting. The Minister had been surprised to see her so soon after the final battle but they’d always gotten along, and he welcomed her into his office with a warm smile and an almost fatherly squeeze of her shoulder.

“Hermione, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He’d asked, straightening his elaborate lilac robes as he sat behind the grand desk at the center of the large office. The windows showed the atrium of the Ministry but could be charmed to display pastoral fields for tranquility. Sheep grazing under fluffy clouds. It was a comfortable temperature from cooling charms and Kingsley had brought some of his style and culture to the decor.

She’d skipped the niceties and went straight to the root of her problem. Professor McGonagall had written her about taking her N.E.W.T.s. at the start of term. When she’d asked if their entire year would be at Hogwarts for the exams, McGonagall had confirmed that every student had been invited to sit for them except for Draco Malfoy. And that hadn’t felt right to Hermione.

So she’d done something about it. Signed a binding agreement with Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic. One that would take immediate effect should he step out of line.

Then she went on with her life. Comfortable in the thought that no one would speak of it again. Now she felt a tightness in her chest. Why had she interfered? It was clear that someone of her background meant little to Malfoy when they were children, but if war taught her anything it was that people can change — for good or ill. She’d watched him throughout sixth year, when he’d looked one sleepless night away from a breakdown. Saw his face in the Room of Requirement the night of the final battle, terror behind his usually cold eyes. It was that face she’d seen in her mind when she’d read McGonagall’s letter. The face of a frightened boy, forced into something he wasn’t ready for. And maybe didn’t want to be a part of.

The endless chasm that was her satchel was less organized than it had been when she’d left her flat the day before. Between being jostled throughout the kitchens and the dungeons and Malfoy’s exploration of her essentials when they’d first arrived, any semblance of order was gone. She set it on the floor and began to levitate its contents onto the desk, recreating her categories — potions, note taking, spare clothes, first aid. Most of it was shrunken, and though she’d been a practicing witch for a decade, she still felt her heart skip as she performed a spell to return everything to her satchel with a single motion.

Though she tried to be quiet, the sound must have woken him. With a near silent sigh he stretched his arms high above his head, popping his joints.

“Breakfast?” He said, rising from the lounge. Hair mussed from sleep. A mark on his face from where his sleeve had pressed against his cheek.

“I haven’t ordered anything yet,” she replied, flicking a tea cup towards him. Ignoring the way she blushed a little at his current state. “Tea or coffee?”

“Look at this lovely teacup you’ve created. Perfectly thin porcelain, well done.” He cradled it in his hand then lit the rest of the candles in the room and set a low fire. “Think I’ll need coffee after that,” he said with another stretch of his spine.

“Were you cold?” She asked, her eyes sweeping over the blanket he’d transfigured her.

“I cast warming charms whenever I woke up,” he said, snatching the enchanted menu from the desk. “Coffee, milk, sugar.” As he spoke, each of the items appeared on the desk. Whole coffee beans, which Hermione ground then set to brew in a French press she transfigured her tea pot into.

“We could have stoked the fire or slept in shifts—”

“There’s no need,” he said, contemplating what uncooked things he’d want delivered to the study. “I haven’t slept more than an hour or two at a time without a potion in years. I’m used to it.”

“You haven’t slept a full night in _years_?” She asked. After the war was over and she could finally breathe again she vacillated between sleeping over twelve hours or merely three. Some days she couldn’t seem to leave her bed until well into midday. Others she was awake until dawn, then wide eyed a few hours later. A side effect of grief.

“Maybe end of fourth year? Probably why I’ve experimented with Dreamless Sleep so much.”

“Even then? But you were always—”

“Tell me, Granger, could you sleep soundly with Death Eaters in your home and threats against your mother? Would your wand under your pillow be the only thing you needed to drift into slumber? No. So what should I ask this useless kitchen to send us for breakfast?”

That was the end of that conversation, she thought, chewing the inside of her cheek. He wouldn’t look at her. Instead he tossed the parchment towards her and began a valiant effort of pretending to read the titles of books on the shelf. Then she watched him take a deep breath through the nose, eyes closed. When he opened them he seemed more collected. Calmer. A sort of blankness in his eyes. And she wondered if it was occlumency. One magical area she hadn’t quite figured out yet, though she’d read a handful of books on the subject. It seemed to be something best learned from a good teacher. Harry was rubbish at it, so she hadn’t bothered lately.

“Eggs, bread, sausages,” she said as she scanned the menu. “Er, anything else you’d like?”

He muttered something under his breath and when he caught her stare he shook his head. “That’s fine.”

Within minutes she had the sausages simmering in a pan over the fire and the eggs frying in another. The coffee had brewed nicely, and she was grateful for the caffeine. They ate heartily, avoiding conversation in favor of watching the fire and the tapestry above it. Sometime during their meal a door appeared to the right.

Their stay at Nott manor was far from over. Malfoy sighed.

“It looks like the doors in the private wing. Reminds me of the door to Theo’s room,” he said. They both vanished the remains of their breakfast and she put the rest of her things away, slinging her satchel over her shoulder. The door was ornate, a beautifully carved dark wood with gold details.

“Knowing how his father felt about him I think it’s unlikely to be Theo’s room,” Hermione mused.

“No, and besides that, Theo cursed his door to scream violently if anyone else came near it.”

“Like a security alarm.”

Malfoy stared at her a moment. “Sure. We should prepare for it to be Senior’s room. Merlin knows what sort of things he kept in his bedchamber.”

They kept their wands at the ready. Hermione cast some of her detection spells, though she doubted their efficacy after the events of the previous day. A troll should have registered. Then she carved another rune into the door’s surface, _Wunjo_. Hoping that the rune’s joyous meaning might permeate the room they were about to face.

Malfoy opened the door to reveal a small sitting room. The colors were different from the study. Instead of the deep purples and dark wood, everything was soft like dusk. Mauve silk upholstered the settee and ottoman. The walls were pale blue, almost grey, with damask flowers reaching towards the ceiling. A white marble fireplace roared to life, and Hermione prepared for a chimera or some other beast to manifest in its flames but the logs snapped and the flames remained normal.

There was a second door across from them. Identical to the one they’d entered through. Above the fireplace was a portrait of the most beautiful woman Hermione had ever seen. The frame was gilded, and the brushstrokes so lifelike she almost thought it was a photograph. The woman had dark skin and sharp features, with hair that fell in a thick, silky curtain to her waist. She wore bright robes in shades of turquoise and delicate gold jewelry. On her lap was a small dragon. The Guardian. Looking like a cat, purring in its sleep as her hand smoothed its scales.

“That’s Theo’s mother,” Malfoy said, confirming her assumption. “We must be in her rooms.”

“Rooms, plural?”

“Yes, this is the sitting room. I’d venture that beyond that door there is her bedchamber, a washroom, and a wardrobe. The magic of the house must consider it all one room.”

The dark eyes of Theo’s mother settled over them, though they weren’t unkind.

“Hello, Zahra,” Malfoy said. She inclined her head in greeting, though she remained skeptical. “I’m—we’re friends with your son, Theo. He’s grown now.”

Hermione’s throat tightened. The portrait didn’t speak, but she did offer them a sad smile. “I don’t suppose you could help us?”

Zahra Nott shook her head and spoke, her voice deep and melodic. “I’m afraid my husband kept many things to himself. This is my only portrait, so I’m not privy to the rest of the house. Don’t touch anything in my jewelry box, just in case.”

“Right then,” Malfoy said, dragging a hand over his jaw. “This seems to be the receiving room for the real task. Shall we?”

Hermione nodded. “Thank you,” she said to the portrait, then crossed the room to the other door. Testing it briefly before swinging it open.

Inside was a lavish bedroom, decorated in the same style as the previous room. Everything seemed frozen in time. As if at any moment the witch herself would walk into the room in a silk dressing gown and chide them for invading her privacy. A large canopy bed took up most of the space, draped in bright purple silk embroidered with tropical birds and plants. Beside it was a photograph of a large family in a rainbow of robes. Their smiles brilliant as they laughed together in an endless loop of joy.

The wardrobe was full of colorful robes like the ones in the photograph, but all pushed to the back, as if they didn’t get much use. The rest of the clothing was more austere, like traditional wizarding robes. Nothing in the wardrobe seemed to hold any secrets. The bathroom was just a bathroom, a bit on the opulent side but still a bathroom. Without any warning bells thus far they continued combing the main space.

Small side tables held ornate floral bouquets in patterned vases. The petals as healthy as if they were just placed there that morning. The plush carpet beneath their feet was imported. There were a few paintings on the wall, mostly landscapes that were far too colorful to be of anywhere in Britain.

The room could have belonged to a wealthy Muggle, if not for a rather large, strange piece of furniture against the wall.

It was like a chest of drawers, only the tabletop was divided into compartments lined with lavender velvet and encased in smoked glass. The center of it stretched nearly as tall as Hermione, showing off a rather gaudy tiara in a gold-studded glass case. Some of the compartments held jewelry, others ancient relics. The wood was rotting in places, eaten away by dark curses. Parts of it crumbling before them. Something about it reminded her of a museum. Like this was an exhibit of a wealthy donor. If that donor had left a half dozen nasty curses for the curator.

“Is this her jewelry box?” Hermione asked aloud. It was far larger than she’d pictured — it was the largest piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. She cast a few basic detection charms over it, and they instantly lit several compartments with the glow of common curses. Things she could reverse in her sleep, really.

“She specifically said don’t touch anything, Granger.”

“I’m not touching I’m assessing. This is my job. _You_ need to not touch anything. And stand a bit further back.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her. “I saw worse collections of cursed objects by the time I was fifteen.”

He looked away from her, likely remembering their earlier conversation. She didn’t want to pry, but she was tempted. The more he begrudgingly opened up to her the more curious she was. Maybe if she just asked—

“What sort of curses are we looking at here? The magical signatures are all dark, of course.” Malfoy stood a few feet away, eying the corner of the dresser, the spot where dark swirls of smoke dissipated.

Hermione approached the hulking piece of furniture and catalogued the compartments. Most of the contents were benign. She traced a diagnostic spell into the air, this time to test out the strength of each curse. It wasn’t foolproof but it would help her decide where to start. Some people preferred to start with the hardest problem before them. To spend hours on the most difficult thing. But she preferred to get the simple things out of the way first. The quick little nuisances that she could swat away like gnats. Leaving her with the time she needed to handle the larger problem. Like removing curses from half a dozen trinkets and bobbles.

First she summoned a bracelet from its spot inside a velvet compartment. It looked tarnished from a distance, but she recognized the oily film of a memory curse along its metal chain. If it made contact with skin, whoever had touched it would forget — what they were doing in that room, who they were, that they had magic. The potency of the curse would determine the level of forgetfulness. A weaker version of the curse was often used for security purposes. She encountered a lot of them on coin purses and more traditional jewelry boxes. This bracelet had a stronger curse to it.

There was a prickle at the back of her neck, bringing warmth up to her ears. With a quick glance over her shoulder she caught him watching her. It wasn’t like the stares she’d get on busier nights in Diagon Alley, from curious people craning their necks for a glimpse at one of the Golden Trio. Or the patient yet aggrieved way some of her colleagues would watch her puzzle out a curse that they failed to crack. Sometimes it was as though Malfoy was learning from her, mentally putting notes down while she cast a different spell or more complex bit of runic translation. Other times it was closer to observing, with a subtlety that didn’t quite escape her notice. She liked the way he looked at her. As if he was taking his time to absorb her features. As if he liked what he saw.

“What are you doing?” He asked, standing just beside her, but not too close to the bracelet she’d been trying to crack.

“I’m working,” she replied, whispering an incantation.

“I meant the runes — that’s not been in anything I’ve read about curses or curse breaking. Nor have I seen it when assisting your department with dark objects.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d admitted to further research and being interested in learning. She was intrigued, but kept her focus.

“Oh, well I don’t suppose you would have.”

“What’s that mean?” Malfoy asked, crossing his arms and tapping his wand against his sleeve. “I’ve read just about every modern curse breaking book.”

Hermione continued to pull runes from the curse, reading its magical signature to determine the curse’s root. “It means that it’s a technique I’ve developed, so it wouldn’t be in any book or journal you’ve read.”

“You made it up?”

She nodded, nearly finished with her initial assessment of the cursed piece of jewelry. “Runic magic is ancient — more ancient than most things we understand. But I’ve read a lot of theory. By finding the root of the curse and tracing the magical signature back to its origin point, I can determine what type of curse it is and what I’ll need to break it. Though this one is fairly obviously a memory curse. Anyway, most cursebreakers just start trying different methods and cast shield charms in between, in case something backfires. This helps move things along and saves me the trouble of additional work.”

With a final flourish she cleansed the stones in the silver setting, revealing a dainty yet lavish sapphire bracelet. It was her own birthstone, and perhaps Zahra Nott’s as well. As she moved on to the other side of the jewelry box, she turned back to see if Malfoy was following her. Instead he stood still, his chin in one hand, with his thumb pressed over his lips. Brows crumpled together.

“ _What_?” She asked.

“Sorry, I’m just trying to understand how you’re not running the entire bloody curse breaking department if this is the sort of thing you develop on the job. Can’t believe your boss would see something like that and just let you languish at the bottom of the pyramid. Junior curse breaker,” he muttered, then ruffled his hair and circled the opposite way around the jewelry table.

“I’ve never shown it to anyone,” she said, tilting her head down slightly. When she glanced up his brows had climbed high up his forehead.

“Why not? Isn’t this just the sort of thing you would have fallen over yourself to show a professor? To prove yourself?”

Hermione swallowed, then cast a protection charm before opening the next compartment that held a cursed object — a silver letter opener. Probably cursed to cut whoever reached for it. Likely a wound that would refuse to close. Common enough, especially in a Death Eater’s house. “Because I don’t want the attention, if I’m being honest.”

While she worked she knew he was gaping at her, like so many others did during her long days at the Ministry. Though she tried to ignore it, she soon felt him inch closer to her, observing her wand movements and listening to her incantations.

In a softer tone he asked, “What do you mean by that?”

“That I don’t like attention?”

“It’s more than that, though,” he said. “You tolerate your celebrity. Why aren’t you pushing for more at your job? You always pushed. Before.”

No one had noticed that she kept to herself. She did good work, her superiors liked her. But he was right. She didn’t ask for more.

“The reason I don’t travel— the reason I’m still low level is because I like the quiet,” she said, admitting it aloud. “When it’s just me in a lab, trying to crack a curse, I get to make mistakes.”

“I find it hard to believe you make many.” He watched her return the cleansed letter opener to its place. Summoning another object.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? The Golden Girl isn’t allowed to make mistakes but Hermione, a junior curse breaker, can.”

“You’re under a lot of pressure,” Malfoy said. “I can understand that.”

“Sometimes I just want to be left alone with my work. Where no one’s waiting to see the Brightest Witch of Her Age. Everyone wants to know what it was like but they only want to hear the highlights,” she spoke rapidly, casting her spells nonverbally when she could. “It’s never about what it was like for _me_ — for all of us. Living with the fear. To the rest of the world… it’s like we were invincible. But we’re not.” In the pause of her ministrations she let her fingers brush against her forearm. The scars beneath her sleeve. Then she shook herself out of it and returned to her work.

Malfoy stayed quiet. Watching her break the curse on a silver hairbrush, then an engraved compact, and finally, snuffing out the last of the lingering cloud of dark magic on the furniture. Leaving nothing but an old, dilapidated dresser in her wake. A treasure chest for a woman who had seemed trapped, like they were.

“We have at least one thing in common,” he said at last.

“And what’s that?”

“Everyone’s waiting for us to screw up.”

Hardly a day went by without an opinion piece in the _Prophet_ about those who’d been given lenient sentencing after the war. How they should have gone to Azkaban instead. All the longterm effects of Voldemort’s regime. The names besmirched by actions. Like Theo, doomed to forever walk in the shadow of his father and carry his name.

“Well,” she said, offering him a smile, “I’d say we’re doing quite alright so far. Haven’t botched the mission yet.”

“Plenty of time for me to fuck up, though.” He didn’t smile back, not completely, but she was pleased to see the hard set of his mouth soften. Like the muscles were remembering just how it worked.

They determined that there was nothing else in the room. All of their detection charms were silent. They chanced opening the door to the bathroom again and found it clear, taking turns with the shower. Hermione’s muscles still ached a little from the encounter with the troll. It hadn’t been enough to take a pain potion. The heat from the water was soothing and she had to force herself out of it. When she came back to the main room, drying her hair with a spell, he gave her a slightly odd look before taking his turn.

While she stood watch she gave herself permission to be vain. The lavender shampoo Zahra had was nice but she missed her usual kind. A Muggle formula that smelled like sweet mint and was meant for her hair type. She worried about how her curls would look, briefly having flashbacks of her frizzy days at school, and quickly tended to them before he came back. In the years since the Yule Ball she’d learned a few tricks for taming her mane, though it remained mostly wild. And she liked it that way.

Malfoy emerged with a cloud of steam, hair damp against his scalp, almost like the slick style he’d worn it in when they were younger. He must have noticed her staring because he cast a drying charm and the strands settled into their newer, messy on purpose look. Shorter on the sides and longer on top.

“If we’re stuck here for a long time I’ll miss that shower,” he said, glancing back at it once more before they returned to the sitting room. Hermione nodded in agreement, lamenting that she left the tent at her flat. It had a private bathroom and a full kitchen.

Zahra’s portrait watched them carefully. The Guardian had moved from her lap to perch on her shoulder, looming high above them.

“Were you successful?” She asked. They looked to the left and saw the door that would lead back to the study.

“It would appear so,” Malfoy said.

“Are you Narcissa’s son? I see much of her in you, though your looks favor your father.”

“Draco,” he replied with a nod. “And this is Hermione Granger.”

She wondered if it felt strange for him to say her first name. If he ever had before. He didn’t stumble over all the syllables.

“I wish you luck on your quest. You’ll need it, if my husband was involved,” she said, twisting the large ring on her finger. Just before they reached the door she called out, “My son—” Malfoy stopped and turned back to face the portrait. “Theo. Is he alive? Is he happy?”

For a moment he looked at her, no doubt seeing the similarities in her features compared to his friend. And Hermione’s heart ached for her, to have never met her son. To not know what type of man he had become.

“He’s trying to be,” he replied. “Most of the time he is.”

Zahra smiled, and there was a sheen to her dark eyes, but she nodded and gathered the Guardian onto her lap once more.

Once they were back inside the study the door disappeared, leaving them to wait for the next task.

“I guess we were wrong about Senior’s game. The rooms must be random, considering the relative ease of the one we just left,” Malfoy said, taking a seat at the desk. The light in the tapestry was still dim, likely early morning.

Hermione said, “For the average wizard, even an experienced auror, it would have been more difficult to extract the curses from the room. They don’t teach your department about more obscure curses, just the violent ones. I’m not sure the curse of the hairbrush would have been have been a known fix.”

“Oh so you’re saying it wasn’t actually easy. Sounds like we’re fucked.”

“More like if you weren’t always researching on your own, you certainly would be,” she said, letting him know that she’d noticed his efforts.

“Good thing I was paired with such a swot, then,” he said, and this time he did smile. A little bit crooked, but a smile all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a day early because it has been **A Week** (tm) here in the States. Thank you to everyone who has left kudos or a comment on this story. They really make my day and I love replying to them!
> 
> As a bit of a teaser for next week...Chapter 8 is one of my favorites. xx Lu


	8. Chapter 8

“What do you think is in there?” Granger asked. She’d insisted they rest for half an hour. Brought out the kettle and various teas from her expanded satchel. Sugar cubes and the honey, too. He was starting to like tea service with her. All that was missing was a plate of chocolate biscuits.

They stared at an imposing double door. Rich, dark mahogany with delicate carvings. Little golden vines that curled into each other forming an endless ring along the edges. The handles were polished brass, the metal gleaming.

Draco sipped his Earl Grey, sweetened with a generous spoon of honey. “Theo said there’s a ballroom. Ours has doors about this size. Could be that.”

Granger smoothed the parchment of Theo’s map, tracing the rooms with her finger as they reviewed them. So far they’d only been able to accurately guess the dungeon, and that had been easy, given what the doorway looked like and the dark steps leading downward. Zahra’s rooms they’d at least deduced that it was a private chamber. Guessing seemed more for fun than anything else. If one could have fun at Nott Manor, which was unlikely.

“Sculpture room…What do you suppose that even is? Like the one at the Louvre?”

“Perhaps but not nearly as large,” he replied, noting the slight look of surprise on her face that he had been to the Muggle museum. “The Notts aren’t exactly art collectors but it’s probably where their more valuable paintings and sculptures are. Busts of long dead ancestors. Antiquities…”

“And do you have one of those too? A museum in your modest home?” Her tone was light. Teasing. She sipped her tea, hiding what looked like a smile.

“No, the Malfoy’s have always preferred to display art. Anything worth bragging about is where it can be seen,” he said, then added, “My mother scolded me from a young age about climbing the statue of Beedle the Bard in the library. But his robes had the perfect foot holds so I rarely listened.”

That particular anecdote earned a laugh, and he memorized it. The way her curls had shifted as her cheeks bloomed. The breathy trill at the end.

“Why were you climbing it in the first place?” She asked. “For the thrill?”

“So I could read from the top of the shelves without being bothered and see anyone else come in.” Like his father.

“Could it be the library?” She asked, her eyes bright in the way that only books would excite her. What would she think of the library at the Manor? Or the smaller one he’d set up in his flat, in what was meant to be a second bedroom?

With a last drink of his tea he stood and patted his pockets, finding everything where it should be. “Only one way to find out, Granger. Are you ready?”

She vanished their tea set and checked her satchel, slipping it over her shoulder. It would have been gentlemanly to offer to carry it for her, he lamented briefly. But he was afraid if he offered now she’d take it as an offense.

“Is it even worth casting detection spells anymore?” She said as she did just that. Tracing her wand over the door and whispering her litany of incantations.

Draco watched her, content to observe as he’d been doing all morning. Inventing her own techniques and keeping them to herself, almost shy about it when he’d asked her what she was doing. In his limited experience with a limited social circle and limited colleagues who would speak to him, once school was finished most magical folk didn’t bother to pursue knowledge. Unless it was necessary for their career, like the Auror aptitude tests. But even those didn’t look to things like potions or runes or arithmancy. New charms were always in fashion, touted about in the lifestyle pages of the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ and other periodicals. Yet Hermione Granger spent her free time creating her own curse breaking techniques just for herself. As if everything else in her life belonged to the wizarding world. And if the way her name was splashed across the pages of the papers were any indication, it did.

He could understand that. When every move was monitored it made it difficult to know what belonged only to you and not an audience. Brewing in his lab was about as close to privacy as he got, and even that had the occasional meddling from his mother. Or visit from Theo or Blaise, wondering when he was going to stop _playing potions_ and come out and get drunk with them.

“Malfoy?” She said, and he hummed in acknowledgement. “I asked if you could cover me. I’ll need both hands to open the door and—”

“Of course,” he replied, and assumed a looser stance. Taking a calming breath to clear his thoughts.

Before them was a pristine hall of black and white marble tiles, lined with portraits and gilded murals on the ceilings. Magical beasts and beings floating far above their heads, tamed by witches and wizards in ethereal garb not unlike a Muggle cathedral. Austere portraits lined the walls. Little podiums held small vases and golden goblets and other antiques. Things no one had use for but that showed wealth and status.

The end of the short hall spilled into a large room full of towering sculptures. Their steps echoed and the air was still and cold. Skylights lit the room in soft midmorning light. Everything was clean. The sculptures creamy marble. The paintings rich colors. It might have been beautiful, if it was in any other house.

The portraits on the wall watched them intently. Turning from their seats in plush chairs or spurring their beasts around to get a glimpse at the intruders. On the far left was row after row of sculpted faces, thin like masks. And perhaps that’s all they were. But the look of terror on their visages churned Draco’s stomach. It made him think of Medusa, with a sort of morbid fear that those faces had once been living. Had once been Muggles — _like Medusa, and we’ll end up stone_. When he’d made that quip it was a lighthearted joke. Now it seemed plausible. He angled himself to keep them from Granger’s line of sight.

To the right were rows of busts of Nott lords and ladies, with matching portraits behind each of them. Likenesses of the head of the household and their bride, going back centuries. None of them looked much like Theo. He’d taken after his mother and her dark features and skin. The Nott line was pale, with mostly wet sand-colored hair, and small blue eyes. Theo’s eyes were an olive green, his skin dark as teak, his hair a wavy brown that was almost black. The only things he’d inherited from his father’s unremarkable looks were thick eyebrows and above average height.

One of the portraits, labelled _William Theodore Nott_ , openly scoffed at them. He had a fanciful mustache and impractical robes. Eighteenth century prat. Muttering something about the defiling of the house with blood traitors and impure blood.

“Can you burn?” Draco hissed under his breath, close enough that the portrait heard but Granger didn’t. Her attention was elsewhere. Observing the stark marble and dark wooden blocks the statues stood on.

“I suppose calling it a sculpture room was appropriate,” she said. All throughout the room were famous pureblood witches and wizards. The occasional hound, carved from white stone. The Notts had once bred hunting dogs, trained to sniff out Muggles. It seemed that the favorites were commemorated in stone. There were dozens of eyes on them — painted and stone. Those of the portraits stared openly. The statues were still. Haunting little carved orbs on solid stone faces.

Draco looked for the Guardian, expecting to see a massive stone dragon at the center of the room. Amethyst eyes the size of a quaffle and wings spanning half the space. Mouth large enough to walk through. Instead it surveyed them from an enormous oil painting along the back wall. Its head rested on its claws. Watching them without blinking. A dusky sunset turned its black scales a rainbow of shades that rippled as it breathed.

Some of the statues carried stone wands. Others held swords or staffs. A few bore shields.

“Guardian,” Draco called out to the painted dragon. It blinked at him. After a few minutes without a response he tried again. “Guardian, what can you tell us about our task?”

The dragon blinked and turned its head away. “Fucking useless,” he said, and rolled his sleeves up to prepare for whatever madness would throw itself at them.

They slowly stepped around the perimeter of the room. The statues were all from different centuries so their sculpted clothing ranged from thick, pleated robes to the more modern wizarding robes of the last few decades. Nothing looked remotely Muggle. Some of the portions of the statues were exaggerated — the height of one wizard as if he was half giant, and no Nott would have allowed that sort of person in their home, even as art. Another was almost a miniature, and reminded Draco of the Bloody Baron, if he were corporeal. There were a few that looked as though they’d once graced the grounds, only to be moved inside when the dreary rain left pock marks and tear stains over the faces of the Three Strange Sisters. Or maybe the artist had intended for them to look that way. Eerie and haunted. Tinged green.

“I think…” Granger started, then swallowed her words, glancing around the room once more.

“Out with it.” The more they lingered the more uneasy he felt. They took tentative steps to the middle of the room. Pausing atop golden tiles laid out in the Nott family crest. He scuffed his foot over the center tile, leaving a mark from his dragon leather boot.

She took a steadying breath. “In first year, with the philosopher’s stone,” she said, pausing to examine a small pixie clinging to the stone skirt of a witch Draco didn’t recognize.

“The rumor mill had a few ideas about that. Some of the older Slytherins swore that Potter murdered Quirrell.”

“There’s no way they knew the half of it,” she said with a sigh. “This house—a lot of it reminds me of that. The professors put together their own lines of defense to protect the stone.”

“And clearly those worked well if three first years managed to get through, including Weasley.”

She rolled her eyes and continued. “Snape’s was potions and a riddle, very clever. But Professor McGonagall…”

He waited for her to continue, following her widening eyes as they took in the sculptures in front of them. The subtle shift from stillness to movement. Heads tilted in their direction. Hunters notched their bows. A giant statue of Salazar Slytherin gripped its wooden staff tightly. Angling its body towards them.

“Best tell me quickly, Granger,” he said between his teeth. Watching as every statue in the room faced them. Internally he ran through a long list of obscenities. They were fucked.

“McGonagall transfigured a giant chess set. We had to take the place of pieces and play our way out of the room.”

“Despite the checkered tile this doesn’t look like a chessboard to me,” he said.

“No but I have a feeling they won’t allow us to move around the room. Particularly to get to _that_ ,” she said, and pointed to a small table at the very back, tucked beneath the portrait of the Guardian. A box rested atop it. Lit by a single beam of light, like a bloody prophecy. There might as well have been a glowing sign above it, directing them to it.Take your prize if you dare.

Once his eyes snapped back, the first arrow flew. Granger’s silent shield charm encircled them and a volley of arrows soon clattered to the floor. A hunting party and their dogs hopped down from their pedestals and circled them, bows notched. The hounds snarling and snapping against their leads.

While Granger held the shield charm he went through some of the tactics he’d learned in training with the Aurors.

“We can’t let the bow and arrows pick us off,” he said, raising his wand and keeping her at his shoulder. “We need to come at them from both sides. I’ll get over there—”

“Shouldn’t we stay close?”

“Until we’ve taken care of _this_ ,” he said, as another round of arrows pierced her _protego_ , “It doesn’t matter if we’re close. We’re easy targets. We need to keep moving. Keep their aim off.”

“Right. Okay. What do you want me to do, Malfoy? I can’t hold this forever!”

“You just need to hold it long enough for me to get over there. When they start to fall, blast through as many of them as you can but keep moving. I don’t trust the rest of them.”

The remaining statues were still only watching them, waiting for the first round of troops to finish their attack before leaving their posts. Draco held his wand at his side and skirted towards the outer wall, dashing through the pedestals in a serpentine path. An arrow grazed his upper arm. He threw a few quick hexes over his shoulder, knocking down some of the hunters.

Once he’d put his back to the wall he began to use the empty pedestals to his advantage by levitating them horizontally to the floor, sweeping them across the entire hunting party. They stumbled over each other and over their stone hounds, arrows missing their mark to clatter to the floor.

He rushed back over to Granger, who had begun shouting “ _Incarcerous_!” at the remaining hunters, binding them together and leaving them in heaps on the tile. Before he could check in on her the remaining statues alighted. Some had staffs or swords, made of stone, but the largest statue in the hall, the towering Salazar Slytherin, held a staff made of carved wood and topped with a pale crystal.

The first strike came from a rather ugly old wizard, whose nose was thin and pointed like a rat’s. He held a broadsword in one hand and a shield in the other. With a powerful punch, he brought the sword inches from Draco’s gut. Granger pushed him out of the way and began to parry the attacks. The Three Strange Sisters approached, each holding one of their symbols: the thread of life, the silver shears, the book of fate.

They fought back to back, like they had in the kitchens, only now they were more used to the other’s style. When he was more logical, casting spells in a specific order, she was able to improvise with her quick thinking and ingenuity. Sometimes it was reversed, and she was the one to think in stages while he flailed about, hoping something would hit its mark.

The Sister with the thread of life wielded it like a whip, lassoing his ankle and yanking him to the ground. Before the others could advance on him he’d severed it, then blown the statue to pieces. He could feel the bruise on his ankle from the force of it, and the warm trickle of blood against his sock.

Granger tussled with Morgan le Fay, in elaborate robes. Her features beautiful yet terrifying. Both the stone carving and the witch fighting it had wild curly hair and focused expressions. Draco had to tear his gaze back to his own opponents. The remaining Strange Sisters.

A gasp of pain from behind him made him react quickly, pushing the two statues together with a shove. Their heads knocked and for a moment they were too dazed to fight back. It gave him time to shield Granger from the hunting dogs summoned by le Fay. She’d been hit at some point, he could see the cut at her brow. A thin line of blood creeping toward her hairline. That didn’t stop her from unleashing a flock of birds, conjured from the rubble, to circle them and chip away at the statues advancing towards them.

Their battle continued like that for a while, protecting each other where they could and taking hits when they couldn’t defend themselves quickly enough. They worked well together, Draco thought, as though they were complimentary.

Granger’s birds swooped around them, cursing the hounds and taking large chunks of the grander statues in the process. The Strange Sisters advanced on him, and he pressed closer to deal with them, keeping one eye on the statue of Slytherin. It hadn’t done anything but watch and take cautious steps around the room. Observing like some emperor at a gladiator match. And Draco wasn’t about to let them be the spectacle.

With a rush of his magic he upended the Sisters with _levicorpus_ , and in a bit of inspiration from the false Mad-Eye Moody who’d tormented him in fourth year, he slammed them down to the floor then back to the ceiling until they collapsed in a pile of broken pieces. He turned to grin at Granger, pleased with himself, but she wasn’t behind him. The fight had brought him further from the center of the room, stepping around abandoned pilasters.

Where was she? He turned, looking across the room for her. When his eyes at last caught her the air in his chest tightened. She was still fighting the statue of Morgan le Fay, nearly pressed against the wall, eyes wide in terror as its stone arm held her tightly. Kicking her legs where they dangled above the ground. Holding onto the statue’s sleeve with both hands. She’d lost her wand.

He twisted and blasted the surrounding statues backward with an earthquake hex to the tile floor. Then he was running, pushing stone hunting dogs out of the way with his boots and rounding them up in the corner, creating a corral out of fallen statues. Keeping their snapping jaws at bay. He had to get to her. That was the only thing he could think, like a mantra over and over. _Get to her, get to her now._ Granger yelled and he moved quicker, shouting spells at the statue gripping her by her clothes, pulling back its arm to punch. He managed to break its arm off, and with the surprise from his spell as an advantage, Granger summoned her wand into her hand and blitzed through the center of the statue. Emerging triumphant and rushing to his side once more.

“Thanks,” she breathed, squeezing his forearm. Her fingers pressing against the tattoo there.

From high above them two harpies dove to the floor, landing beside the statue of Slytherin. It raised its arm, pointing towards them, and the harpies fluttered closer. They couldn’t make sound, but they looked as though they were screeching as they flapped their wings and circled them.

One of the stone creatures dove towards them, and Granger took out one of its wings with a blasting spell. Its twin zigzagged, making it harder to hit.

They fought to the back corner of the room, forced further away from the Guardian and his treasure. Draco facing off against the towering marble figure of Salazar Slytherin while Granger held her own against the harpy. The Hogwarts founder moved faster than something of its size should have been able to move, knocking debris to the side with its dark staff. The crystal at the top glowed faintly in the light from the ceiling. He could hear Granger’s attacks but she was out of his eye line.

None of his spells were landing and he knew his aim was near perfect — he’d had top marks in training for target accuracy. Something about its staff was more than transfiguration. It wasn’t just a weapon. There was magic in the wood.

He slung a few spells to slow the statue down but its marble seemed impervious to the _impedimenta_ charm, too. With a grunt he pushed over one of the wooden stands, blocking its path. Granger ran through the rows of busts of Notts past, blasting through their ranks. Shattering their grim faces with her spells. Determination on her face. It took his focus, admiring her magic. And that brief moment cost him.

Slytherin’s statue swept its staff, knocking him off his feet. Draco hastily cast a _protego_ , holding the spell with both hands while the statue pressed against it with his staff. The shield began to fracture, starting with a thin line at the center that grew outward, spiraling like a spider’s web. He held his wand tightly, forcing as much of his magic into it as he could, trying to push the statue back with a grunt. But it was no use. It brought its staff down again, shattering the shield and knocking his wand from his hands. Sending it clattering into a corner somewhere. He scooted back on the floor where he’d fallen, scrambling to get to his feet. Cutting his hands. The debris all around him made it harder, and he was backed against the wall, staring up at his impending doom.

“No!” Granger shouted, throwing a blasting spell at the statue. It parried it with its staff, sacrificing the wooden weapon in the process. Before Draco could react, a marble hand reached down and lifted him by the scruff of his neck, cutting off his air and dangling him several meters off the ground. There was too much pressure on his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe and his fingers raked across the stone hand, trying to prise it free. The rest of his air clicking in his throat. But it was no use. The statue held him too tightly and he was wasting the last of his energy trying to fight back.

His eyes slowly shifted to look at Granger, to try to convey to her in a single look that it would be okay. She could handle it without him. They’d taken down the majority of the army of statues. If she could just make it a little longer, use her brilliant mind to crush this last one of them, she’d make it out. She had the portkey. She could make it out. She was the brightest witch of their age.

The defiance and anger on her face reminded him of the moment when she hit him, back in third year. Refusing to back down against a bully. She ran towards the statue, throwing curse after curse against its impenetrable marble robes. Finally she shouted, “ _Reducto!_ ” And Draco watched her spell sever the statue’s wrist, shattering it and releasing him to crash into a heap on the floor. Hitting his head in the process.

There were chunks of marble beneath him, pressing into his skin painfully where he landed. A numbness at his side from the impact. A cloudiness in his head from the lack of oxygen. Everything smelled of ash and the coppery tang of blood. His blood, probably. Granger was shouting something that sounded like his name, running and attacking Slytherin’s statue with spellwork that made him dizzy. As Draco started to rise, feeling every bruise as he pressed his way partly up with his forearm, she threw herself in front of him.

The protego she cast wasn’t the shimmering translucent shield they’d all learned as students. It was a wall of iron, wrapped in spikes. The force of it pushed the statue backwards, and then she yelled, “ _Bombarda_!” The spell hit it square in the chest, breaking the once towering sculpture into a thousand pieces. The rubble rained over them but her shield deflected the debris. Clattering against it before tumbling to the ground.

Granger dismissed the shield and dropped to the floor, fingers hovering over him before gripping his arms at the shoulders in not quite an embrace. He raised a shaking hand and held the back of her head, smoothing her disheveled hair. It was softer than he expected it to be.

“Are you all right? Are you hurt?” She asked, eyes wide as she pulled back and ran her hands over his arms and shoulders, then reached to hold his face gently. Running her thumbs across his jaw, his cheeks, his throat. Concern in the lines of her pretty face. And maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought, and was imagining it, her touching him this way. It could have been a dream. So he sat up on his elbow and gripped her arm, breathing shallow as he looked her over, too. Made sure she was okay beyond the cut at her brow and the scrapes at her knees. Felt her warm skin to confirm it was real.

“I’m fine,” he said between breaths, throat hoarse. “I’ll be fine.” He kept one hand at her shoulder and brought the other to circle her wrist then press flat against her hand, holding it to his cheek for an extra moment. Steadying himself. Everything seemed suspended — like an _immobulos_ charm had been cast over them and they were floating somewhere. She closed her eyes and he watched a teardrop escape the corner. A tiny thing that slid down her cheek and onto his thumb. Warm and delicate. When she opened her eyes, he drank in the relief reflected in them, then leaned forward and kissed her.

They sat amid the rubble, still except where their lips pressed softy together. Then she moved one of her hands from his face, lightly touching the back of his head and the hair at his nape. It felt like lighting a fire under a cauldron. It felt like permission. He pulled her closer and sighed against her mouth, kissing her harder as he leaned back against the cracked stones. Letting them dig into his spine. The hand at her shoulder moved behind her to bring her closer still. Everything felt lighter when her body pressed against his. Like the contents of his skull had cleared away. It was dizzying. They pulled apart just enough for him to look into her depthless brown eyes.

And then he collapsed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a new tag for hurt/comfort and a mild content warning for this chapter. Please see the end notes.

Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, Hermione thought as she held an unconscious Draco Malfoy in her arms. The fact that he’d lost consciousness when he did was perhaps even more shocking than the events that preceded it. Luckily, her hands had been positioned in such a way that she caught him before he could hit his head on the marble floor again and cause more potential brain damage. He had a concussion at the very least.

Gently, she laid him down and ran a diagnostic spell. While the magic scanned his body for injuries, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was warm — still breathing though it was shallow.

“Malfoy,” she whispered, tapping his cheek in a light slap turned caress. “Draco, can you hear me?”

He was still.

She checked the diagnostic spell. It lit up different parts of his body in various colors, each corresponding to a type of injury or magical malady. A rudimentary healing spell that was useful. Several bruised ribs, one broken rib that collapsed his right lung, some internal bleeding, a bruised esophagus, and a concussion. Most of it she could handle but it was enough to worry her. Make her fingers itch for the emergency portkey in her satchel. But he would likely have been angry with her if she used it.

 _Come on, Granger, I’ve had worse_ , she could hear him saying, _Remember when Potter nearly killed me on a bathroom floor?_ So she transfigured one of the wooden podiums from a fallen statue into a cot and levitated him onto it to keep him stable. His head lolled to one side, hair falling over his eyes. She took her dusty jumper off and cast a quick cleansing spell before folding it beneath his head as a pillow. Then she charmed the cot to float beside her as she searched for the way out of the room.

Crumbled remains of sculptures covered the floor and she swept them aside with her wand. Half of the statues creeped her out — the Three Fates had reminded her of crying angel figures popular in Muggle cemeteries, weather-stained and hooded. Then there were the death masks that Draco had tried to keep her from noticing when they’d entered the room. Anguished faces that she knew in her heart were Muggle victims.

As she walked through the room she came upon a broken shard from Slytherin’s mighty staff, the fragments of its crystal top a scattering of sand beneath it. She picked up the wood, careful to avoid a splinter. It was about as thick as a broomstick and the length of her forearm. The staff had been made of a strange wood, with a wavy grain. Hermione wondered if it was wand wood, since the statue had wielded it as a weapon in a different way than the other sculptures. Although it didn’t have a core and wasn’t wielded by a wizard, so it wouldn’t be able to perform real magic. Perhaps due to the magical properties of the wood and the strength of the transfiguration on the statue it was more impervious to magic. Maybe that’s why it had seemed unbeatable. She tucked it into her satchel, eager to do some more research once she was back at the Ministry. Perhaps write to Mr. Ollivander.

There was a sharp pain at her shoulder from where a stone arrow had grazed her. More bruises and scrapes were likely, but she felt reasonably well, all things considered. Draco was her concern. There was a grey tinge to his skin, as if the color had been drained, and it made the purple bruising even more stark. The dark circles beneath his light eyes more prominent. She traced a finger over his cold hand, across the knuckles, before resting it on his wrist. Feeling his stuttering pulse as she walked through the gallery to the portrait of the Guardian.

Some of the busts sneered at her, the portraits of old and now long dead Notts called her mudblood but she ignored them, focusing on the large dragon before her. He was always the one to address the Guardian first. With that subtle bit of superiority that came with being a Malfoy. She hoped the vial around her neck would somehow give her the pureblood confidence to speak to it without her voice cracking. The pulse beneath her fingers was too slow and her own was far too fast.

“Guardian,” she called out from before the large painting. It took up nearly the entire wall, and the dragon seemed to be painted to scale. “We’ve completed our task but no door has appeared.”

“And why should this is be my problem? Seems like your own.”

Hermione’s face heated. “Yes it _is_ your problem. If you don’t help us I know a number of spells to alter your brushstrokes.”

The dragon laughed, a deep rumble of boulders down a mountain. “Oh, you’re not at all how I expected a mudblood to be.”

The scar on her forearm prickled. She leveled her wand higher, trailing it over the length of the dragon. “I suppose I could start with your pretty scales,” she said, then traced over its wings. The Guardian stiffened. “Or perhaps your cold-blooded nature is in need of warming?” She lit the tip of her wand with a small flame, just enough that the purple-eyed creature widened its gaze.

With an exaggerated sigh it stood and faced forward. “I thought you’d at least want to have a bit of fun. There’s no need to threaten my fine craftsmanship. Have you no respect for art? Are you that uncultured?”

Know your opponent, she thought.

“Perhaps if you were nicer I would compliment the way the light filters through your wings.”

The Guardian relaxed slightly. “So good of you to notice,” it said, flaring them out to show off.

“Please help us,” Hermione said. “He’s hurt, and you wouldn’t want to be the cause of another pureblood line ending, would you?”

“Oh, that would be dreadful,” the Guardian replied. When it didn’t offer anything else Hermione’s throat tightened. There wasn’t time for this.

“He’s named for a dragon, you know,” she tried, and the Guardian perked up. “The constellation, Draco. With the night sky as its canvas it’s almost as if that dragon has black scales, too.”

The Guardian pouted a bit. “But which of these two dragons is the best looking?”

Hermione glanced down at where she still held the wrist of an unconscious Draco. Then she twisted the vial across its chain, feeling the etchings on the glass. “I don’t think you can compare a painting as grand as yours to anything else.”

The dragon preened, stretching its long neck and giving her what might have been a smile. “You’re desperate to leave and yet you have not claimed your prize. Would be a shame to leave without it.”

She thought about his words, looking around the room behind her for something different. It was all destruction and dust. Then she remembered the small table they’d seen when they arrived. The one perfectly lit by a skylight. It was untouched. When she looked up a simple door had appeared beside the Guardian’s painting.

With one last brush against his wrist she let go of Draco and stepped towards the little table. It was warm from the sun. Its tabletop was a square of thin marble. Its stand dark wood. The feet were iron dragon claws. The box was carved mother of pearl, about the size of a thick book. Shimmering iridescent in the sunlight. She opened it with a wave of her wand, weary of touching its surface without casting a detection spell. Inside was a golden key, with a beautiful scrolled top and a silk tassel hanging from it like a keychain. The dark purple of the House of Nott.

The Guardian had curled up on itself, lightly snoring. She rolled her eyes at the lazy creature. The door that had appeared didn’t have a lock, so she tucked the key into her satchel and levitated the cot towards her. Focusing on the things she would need to summon from the depths of her bag once they were back in the study. A voice echoed through her thoughts. Her own voice. _When you’re bleeding on the floor it will be my honor to step around you and leave you there._

She slashed her wand through the air and the door flew open, banging against the wall beside it. The Guardian woke up and let out an overdramatic sigh. She smiled to herself as she brought Draco through the door. Once back in the study she began running more diagnostics and rummaging through her bag for supplies. Summoning a few things. The potions kit he carried with him was a bit more extensive, and certainly better quality brews than the ones she had. He’d slipped it into his trousers pocket at some point, and she carefully extracted it with an _accio_.

Each glass vial was labelled in his infuriatingly perfect hand. There were a few titles she didn’t recognize, and she wondered if they were things he’d experimented with. _Golden Sleep_ must have been what he told her about earlier. The suspension of dreamless sleep and a calming draught. She thought about giving him some but she didn’t know the proper dose, and couldn’t risk him being out for more than half a day. There were a few vials of essence of dittany and more pain potions than she’d brought with her.

For a few brief months she’d thought about becoming a healer, so she knew rudimentary healing magic from her personal studies and got to work. First she gave him a generous dose of pain potion, tipping it down his throat. Mending broken bones was painful enough without the list of other injuries he was sporting. She lined all of her supplies along the desk and faced him. Clearing the grime of battle from his skin and clothes before she began.

“ _Brakium emendo_ ,” she said, pressing the tip of her wand to his side, instantly fixing the broken rib. Then she healed his other ribs of small fractures. Fed him a blood-replenishing potion. Another dose of pain potion. The pierced lung was trickier, but soon his breathing improved and she knew she’d performed the spell correctly. Having only read about it before, it was a risk. There wasn’t much to do for the concussion but let him rest it off. The pain potions would sort it out in time.

Once she was satisfied with his condition she levitated him to the sofa, transfiguring it a bit to be wider, in case he turned in his sleep. Then she draped the grey blanket over him. While he slept she cast a diagnostic spell on herself and confirmed she was just bruised. She had a small jar of bruise paste from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to take care of them. A few dabs of dittany on her cuts. The deeper cut on her shoulder she healed using the spell she’d learned from Draco, glad to reduce the chance of a scar. She had enough of those.

A sharp, rattling exhale tugged her attention. He stirred, breathing heavier than before. The internal injuries were healing themselves with the potions she’d given him. The pain must have caused some distress — spine of lion fish was known to induce lucid dreaming. His eyelashes were fluttering, his eyes moving quickly beneath their lids, as if scanning something. Sweat clung to his pale skin. She cleaned him up with a few spells, tucking the blanket up over his arms.

When she brushed his hair back from his forehead she lingered. Gone were the more pointed features of his youth, refined into an elegant bone structure. Beautiful, even. His temperature was stabilizing, which was a good sign. It helped that he was in shape. For the healing. She shook the image of his perfectly tailored work robes from her thoughts. How she’d hear people whisper about how fit he was. For a Death Eater. Always qualified, regardless of the compliment. He was an asset to the Auror department. For a Death Eater. He made generous financial donations. For a Death Eater. She wondered if he heard them say it. The streets of Diagon Alley were less quiet than the halls of the Ministry. If she heard the whispers, surely they echoed.

She’d just begun to peruse the bookshelves when a loud gasp sounded behind her. His eyes fluttered open, the grey of his irises dark and thunderous. Looking for her as he lurched up on the sofa, a touch of fear in his features when he locked his eyes on her before falling back against the cushions. Gritting his teeth.

“It’s all right,” she said, taking a few steps toward him. With a gentle hand she stilled him, setting her book down on the cushion. Pressing her hand against his forehead. “You’re healing from a few injuries. It’s best if you lie down until the potions work their way through your system.”

“Granger?” His voice was like gravel from all the different healing tonics and the damage to his windpipe from the statue.

“You shouldn’t talk,” she said quietly. When he tried to push himself up again she pressed him back down gently but firm. “And you need to rest or you won’t heal properly. I’ll put a sticking charm on you if you don’t stay still.”

He seemed confused, like he wanted to ask her questions but it was too difficult to form the words. Likely because his vocal chords were still healing.

“We’re back in the study,” she said, trying to keep her voice neutral and calm. Soothing, like the doctors in Muggle medical shows. “You were hurt but I finished it — the sculptures. There was a key in the box. A door appeared near the Guardian.”

His eyelids drooped, fighting to stay awake.

“Are you in pain?” She asked. “Just nod your head don’t speak.”

He nodded, blinking his eyes rapidly to keep them from closing shut again.

She tipped more pain potion into his mouth, wiping a drop from his lip with her thumb. One of his hands reached up and clasped her wrist. She inhaled sharply.

“Is…That all?” He whispered, his grip slipped and his hand cradled onto his chest. Eyes closing.

She thought about the way he’d held her hand against his face before their kiss. So fleeting in the moment but consuming nonetheless. It was probably just the adrenaline. He’d almost died, after all. Looked at her from high above as if to say goodbye. He hit his head. Probably confused. It wasn’t like he’d do it again. As she watched him drift off to sleep once more she whispered, “That’s all.”

Of all the things she’d imagined happening to her when left alone in a cursed house with Draco Malfoy, a kiss wasn’t on the list. When she was young the common refrain when a boy was mean to her was, “It’s because he likes you.” But then she went to a magical school with a boy who looked ethereal but spoke like the most wicked of serpents. It taught her that if someone didn’t like you, they let it be known. Loudly, across the corridor. Quietly, in a sneer. Because no one who cared about you would treat you that way.

It was part of what she always hated about her relationship with Ron. He was never hurtful intentionally, but he treated the things she cared about as secondary. Whether it was her exams before they completed their schooling or when she decided to decline the opportunity to become an Auror with him and Harry or her continued interest in the rights of beasts and beings. Like they were a nuisance meant to be put up with in their relationship instead of parts of her. Things she was excited about with her work were met with, “That’s great, Hermione.” Dismissed. If she was reading something engrossing he would nod, but never ask questions when she shared her thoughts. He chastised her for reading too much. For studying even though they were no longer in school. They were comfortable together to the point where it made her uncomfortable. Complacency felt like a boggart in a wardrobe.

The more they grew up the less they had to talk about besides the past. And Hermione began to hate lingering in bygone years. When they finally broke up after a year of dating it was simple. Like they’d merely had an argument and moved on. They went back to being friends whose only real commonality was sharing custody of Harry Potter. That was well over two years ago. They’d both dated casually since then. And they were both happier.

The Malfoy in front of her was different from their schooldays. Not just because his hair was longer and his shoulders broader, though she had noticed both. He’d researched things that would only matter for her blood status, that would keep her safe. Took careful notes during their planning sessions. Asked her questions about her work. Sent his house elf to relocate a forest troll. Teased her instead of taunted her. Challenged her. Kissed her.

When she pressed the back of her hand against his forehead once more he was starting to get overheated. Healing magic often caused fevers. She propped him against her side and struggled to remove his jumper without jostling him awake. Limbs like dead weight as she pulled them through the sleeves. He mumbled something nonsensical as she yanked the woolen fabric over his head, leaving his damp hair standing on end. It was oddly endearing, to see him so rumpled. Then she unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt to help his breathing. Realizing too late that she could have just used a severing charm to remove the jumper and repaired it afterwards. Some things didn’t occur to her in the moment — the Muggle way was a part of her.

It would take a few hours for most of the potions to take effect. Pain potions were instant, but healing fractured bones and replenishing blood was slower. Still quicker than Muggle healing but not as quick as Hermione would have liked. They’d already been at Nott Manor for over twenty-four hours and weren’t any closer than where they started, literally and figuratively. A new door had yet to appear and it would be asking too much that it lead straight to the potions laboratory once it did.

The light in the Guardian’s tapestry showed it was getting later, somewhere in the early afternoon. It seemed like he’d drifted back into a deeper sleep, so she pulled a few books from the shelves, creating a small stack on the desk. Made a pot of tea, sipping from the transfigured teacup he favored. She ordered fruit, bread, and cheese to snack on and some ingredients to make soup for when he woke up. 

Nott’s book collection was interesting. Many of the titles were rudimentary magical texts, things that any student of Hogwarts would have used to write essays. But nestled among the old standbys were a few obscure titles. She spent some time reading through the diary of a potioneer, Arsenius Jigger, hoping to find any information within the pages that might help them with the mysterious potion Nott Senior had brewed. There were several diaries and biographies of potioneers, some she’d read before. She wondered if Draco had.

For a few hours she alternated between reading and thinking and wandering the room, casting diagnostic spells to see how the healing was going. Making plans for some of the other rooms Theo had listed on his map, though it was hard to plan for anything in this house. Looking through more books and taking notes. Fixing a simple vegetable soup that was her mother’s recipe and letting it simmer over the fire. Anything to keep as busy as possible while she waited for him to wake up.

At first she sat in one of the armchairs, then moved to the one closer to the sofa. Eventually she grew tired of getting up every quarter hour to go check on him and perched on the edge of the couch, leaning against the arm rest by his head. The sun began to set in the tapestry so she stoked the fire and ate some soup. There was still no new door, and even though she was eager to find out what was left for them in the house she was grateful for the time to recover. On average it took at least ten hours for most of the injuries Draco had sustained to heal properly. She estimated it had been perhaps half that.

He had turned onto his side, breathing even and temperature normal. All good signs. His hand twitched in his sleep, the tips of his fingers grazing her own where it rested at her side. They moved over her knuckles, curling around two of her fingers. A sigh escaped his lips on an exhale and she brushed the back of his hand with her thumb. Wondering if he was awake. But he continued to doze until eventually his hand drifted away from her. And she felt cold.

There was nothing else she could do but wait. For him to wake up and the door to appear. So she gave in to the heaviness in her eyes and decided she would rest. At least for a little while. She didn’t want to go far from him, so that she could continue to monitor the progress of his internal injuries with diagnostic spells. That was what a good healer would do. It was easy to extend the sofa to be wide enough to lie beside him. She’d always been a light sleeper, and she needed to make sure he was all right, she told herself. It would be better for her to be next to him rather than in one of the chairs. Not to mention more comfortable. Especially for what would essentially be a nap. The blanket he transfigured for her covered them both. The warmth of his body heat enveloping her within the wool. The sounds from the fire were soothing. She set an alarm on her wand for five hours and faced away from him, her hands folded beside her. Falling fast asleep.

* * *

When he woke it was warm in the study. He could hear a low fire burning in the grate. The last logs snapping into embers. As he blinked, confused to be on some sort of bed, he felt a tickle from curly hair just beneath his chin. She’d been using his left arm as a pillow. The right was curled around her waist, and she clutched his hand with both of hers, tucked under her jaw. A few of her fingers entwined with his. Her soft breath whispering across his skin. A sliver of her lower lip brushing his knuckles on each measured exhale. He wanted to feel its softness beneath his touch, see if it felt like he remembered it feeling against his lips. One of his legs was snaked between hers. He didn’t dare move.

Had he curled around her in the night? Or had she nestled against him? He’d never shared a bed with anyone beyond a scant half hour, before gathering his clothes and heading for a fireplace. There was something nice about the way their limbs settled together. The way her ribs expanded beneath his arm, pressing against his chest. Encouraging him to breathe in tandem. The feel of her curves. The faint notes of peppermint and shortbread and rose hidden beneath a lavender shampoo.

If he turned, he risked waking her. And he was loathe to leave her touch. Better for her to wake and extract herself, he decided. Let her react while he pretended to sleep. There was a dull throb at the base of his skull from when he was thrown to the floor. The potions had helped his throat, and he didn’t feel pain at his ribs anymore. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of her hair. Steadied his breaths to match hers. The fingers laced with his flexed and she made a sound of concern. He wondered if she, too, spent more time in nightmares than dreams.

When she woke she would pretend it hadn’t happened, that they’d merely laid side by side. Shoulder to shoulder. Healer and patient. Professional. Not a denial, not outright, because she’d never acknowledge that she’d held him. Like when he’d kissed her, amid the smoke and the rubble. And he would go along with it. Because there was no world in which he could admit what he felt for the witch beside him. For longer than he knew. No matter how many tests he scored high on or charities he threw galleons at. No matter how many years went by. In their world he would always be a Death Eater and she was forever the Golden Girl.

So he pressed closer, breathing in the content sigh she released in sleep. Comforted and consumed by something that could never be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: brief discussion of injuries and healing, nothing too graphic. If you would like to avoid any of this, you may skip two paragraphs without missing key story details. Skip the one that starts _She checked the diagnostic spell._ as well as the one that starts _“Brakium emendo,” she said._
> 
> Thank you for reading and for the response to the last chapter! I also want to express my enduring love and gratitude for **iconicnovel** , my self-dubbed "vibe beta" and dear friend who encourages me and approves all of my Twitter/Tumblr cover images for every single chapter. She also leaves notes in my drafts that are rewritten Phoebe Bridgers lyrics.
> 
> Also the chapter count went up oops oh no... xx Lu


	10. Chapter 10

The Nott family library wasn’t as vast as the one at the Manor but it still left Granger speechless. From the moment the doors opened and she saw the shelves. Awed at how the light filtered in from the floor to ceiling windows to illuminate thousands upon thousands of rare volumes. Her doe-like eyes were wider than he’d ever seen them, and yet she still stood an extra step away from him. Gripping her wand and avoiding his eye.

When he woke up he felt back to normal. Did a series of stretches to confirm it. He’d slept through her own awakening, somehow. Blamed the large amounts of pain potions flowing through his veins for robbing him of the moment when she slipped through his arms. He finally looked at her, instantly noting the stiffness in her shoulders. The tense way she made tea, methodically moving through the steps while speaking to him over her shoulder. Told him he needed to eat and sent a bowl of soup floating over to him followed by some bread. Asked if he needed a pain potion, which he declined. He ate his full while she puttered around. Pulling things from her expanded satchel. Putting them back in. Returning books from a small stack to their places on the bookshelves. Busying herself so that she didn’t have to look at him.

The decision to end her agony felt like picking up one of the coals from the fire with his bare hands. Reaching for it slowly, then snatching it up to get it over with.

“Granger, what happened?” He asked, taking small bites of vegetable soup. It was thin — mostly broth. She’d given him some sort of herbal tea with a little bit of honey. Like she didn’t trust him with caffeine or too much sweetener. Like a child. At first he watched her elbows tighten, pressing closer to her body. Then he continued. “I think I must have blacked out once I hit the ground. Can’t really remember anything. A lot of strange dreams.”

The relief that passed over her face splintered through his gut. The scrunched line of her shoulders gave way a little as she went through what happened. A play-by-play of their fight with Slytherin’s statue. Like an announcer at a quidditch match but without the added dramatics. She’d been able to destroy it once his staff was broken. Draco had lost consciousness due to his many injuries but she’d conjured a cot for him. She even smiled at him when she described levitating him through the sculpture room. Something about Slytherin’s staff had her excited, talking about conducting further research, her eyes lighting up at the thought of being back in her fucking laboratory at the end of the mission. Eager to no longer be paired with him.

The more she spoke the hotter his insides churned. He stopped hearing her, only catching a few words here and there about the Guardian and the door. She seemed glad that he didn’t remember. That she could make her own version of what happened. One without a kiss on the floor or sleeping tangled together.

Just as he knew she would. He’d tried to imagine it while faking sleep to count her breaths. The way she would rewrite the events. But actually seeing her deny it — deny _him_ — he couldn’t have prepared for it. The dull ache that pulsed through his insides, taking up residence. _She wants to forget you_ , it said with every twist of her words. Because how ever much he’d thought about her, she never thought of him.

“I ran some diagnostics this morning while you slept,” she went on, and he nodded his head when he needed to. Let her go over all the healing spells and potions she’d used. Sipped at his weak tea. Cracked a knuckle beneath his thumb.

While she talked through all of her amateur healer steps he tried to occlude. To push everything away, like he used to. Like he was always able to before the mere sight of her pushed back. Ruining years of practice and expertise. The echo of his aunt’s disgust and Severus’s disappointment and his mother’s concern.

Pity. It was always pity from her. In those big brown eyes and they way they blinked up at him. The way they trailed over his left forearm. The constant need to meddle in his life. To help the poor, misguided Malfoy. What a pity he’d taken the mark and fucked up his entire life.

The door appeared. She wanted to run more tests, to let him rest before they began. But he didn’t want to wait. Didn’t want to keep her here any longer than was necessary. So he’d said all of the things he needed to to convince her that he was fine. That he was ready. Let her cast a final diagnostic test to prove that he wasn’t as broken as she thought. He yanked his jumper over his head and took her satchel, slinging it over his shoulder to slap against his hip. The door was similar to the last one, and without waiting for her to carve one of her precious runes into it he pulled it open and stepped inside, leaving her to follow.

Waves lapping at the shore. Other Occlumens used walls or shelves, like a library. Or compartments and boxes all labelled in the mind. Those were strong techniques that he’d used throughout seventh year and for the first year or so after the war. But lately he let things move away from him on a gentle wave, taking only what he needed when the tide returned. Focusing on the lapping of the water. It had been peaceful. But now, with the emotions swirling through him, his once gentle waves had turned into a violent storm, ready to crash into the land. And ruin everything he’d built there.

Granger was going on about her detection spells or how many books she thought their were or some other asinine attempt at burying him. Every word buzzing around him like lacewing flies.

“Are you done then?” He snapped. Arms crossed while he tapped his wand against his thigh.

She had the audacity to look surprised. “Am I done with what?”

“Whatever it is you’re going on about. Thought you wanted to finish this quickly.”

For the first time all morning she turned to look at him, her brows squinting. Probably wondering if he’d needed another round of potions. Or more unnecessary diagnostics. Poor Malfoy, tossed around by the founder of his own house. Must be about time to save him. Again.

“Sorry for wondering aloud what we might be about to face. Here I thought we were a team and could problem solve together but if you’re going to just ignore me then perhaps you should step aside and—”

“You don’t know everything, has anyone ever told you that?” He glared at her and she glared back. The need to put her hands on her hips clearly growing. Just a few more and she’d assume the stance.

“I think I know a fair lot more than you do.”

Perfect, he thought, brave little Gryffindor ready for a fight.“Oh sure, you have all the answers—”

“Obviously I don’t since I’m _trying_ to puzzle this out with you!”

“—and know all the ways to fix things well guess what? Some of us don’t want you to try to fix everything!” He talked over her and around her, examining the shelves. They matched the ones in the study, and the room before them was large. The shelves tall and spanning to both ends, left to meet the windows and right to meet the wall. In front of them they split into two paths. One full of magical theory, the other family records and diaries. Maybe he would burn his way through them. A nice _incendio_ through the parchment and leather and ink.

“Dra—Malfoy,” she stuttered, as if his first name was bitter, “stop moving for a second. You’re acting different. The room must be—”

“Different from what? This is who I am, Granger. Always has been.” He heard her cast her bloody diagnostics spells and he sliced his arm through them, feeling the magic disperse. “You don’t get to make me another one of your charity projects. I’m not interested.”

“What are you—”

“I don’t need anyone’s pity least of all yours,” he said, mentally weighing the options of which direction to move through the room. To whatever disaster awaited them. Maybe something he could throw defensive spells at. A fight could be—

“That’s what you think?” She chased after him. “That I pity you?”

“I don’t think. I know.” He swept back to the other end of the shelf to look at that path, listening to her quickened steps.

“I don’t pity you,” she said, but her voice hitched. “Do I feel a bit…sad for you? About how you choose to ostracize yourself and never make an effort to know people? Yes, I do. There’s more to you than—”

“Do you ever just shut the fuck up?”

Now he’d done it. He chewed on his cheek and faced down her glare. The hands on her hips, accentuating the way they flared out from her waist. “No, I don’t and you of all people should know that by now. If I wanted to pity you I would but don’t stand there with your superiority complex and tell me how I feel. I’m perfectly capable—”

“I’m not a lost forest troll in a dungeon, I’m a bloody person,” he said, hating the way she looked at him. The gentle steps she took closer. Like he was an injured unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, and if she just held out her hand he wouldn’t run.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he said, taking a step back. Then he started to say something he shouldn’t. “That’s not what I want us to be—”

“When did I ever say you need fixing?”

He’d never been more grateful for her gigantic mouth or constant need to interrupt and talk over him. “You didn’t have to. Volunteer to babysit the death eater and add another tally to your good person chart. Make sure you meet your quota for the year. Inform the Minister.”

“I don’t do things just to—you know what, I’m not having this stupid argument. Whatever you think about me you’re wrong.”

“I think I’ve always known what to think about you,” he sneered at her, like he used to. It felt wrong even though he remembered how to do it.

“And what’s that? That I’m just a—”

He cut her off before she said something that wasn’t true. “You deny things. Can never actually admit to what you want,” he said, and every time she opened her mouth to argue he kept going. “Always settling for things like your low-level job and whatever pathetic union you had with Weasley. You’re smarter than that and everyone knows it. Brightest Witch of her fucking Age but the minute the war is over you no longer want a challenge. What are you even doing with your life, Granger? Huh?” There was a line of silver in her eyes, her lip gnawed between her teeth. “Always wanting to prove yourself. Doesn’t it get tiring carrying everyone else’s burdens? Don’t you have enough of your own?”

A small gasp. He met her eyes. “Or maybe it’s all just for show.”

_Fuck_ , he thought the moment the words left his lips. _Fuck_. His eyes closed. When he opened them and reached for her she recoiled and took a few steps back. “Granger, I didn’t,” he said with a grimace, taking a step closer. She stepped back in tandem, then she ran. Sending books behind her to block his path.

She turned left, through the shelves and around the corner at a clipped pace. With a gruff exhale he squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Fuck_. He may have said it aloud. Then he took a breath and ran to follow after her, flicking the books out of his way. Instead of the passage she’d left through there was another wall of books. The shelves had shifted silently. In the brief moment he’d shut his eyes.

“Granger!” He yelled, turning to look for her, for a new entry point, for something. The thump of his heart quickened and he could feel it in his throat. “ _Reducto_!” He threw the spell at the thick spines but they didn’t so much as quiver. No blasting spell or fire or earthquake moved them. Calling her name proved useless, turning his throat scratchy. The only path was behind—in the opposite direction. He spun through the corridor of books, bracing himself for another attack, like the plates and knives in the kitchen. But they remained on their shelves. The first fork in the metaphorical road greeted him and he stopped. Needed to think. Left would presumably take him closer to where Granger had run off, but the rules of Nott Manor weren’t built by logic. They were built by a need for cruelty. By a cunning Slytherin.

The more he tried to find Granger, the more the room would actively work to keep them apart. It seemed the most twisted version of logic. So he went in the opposite direction, trying to focus his thoughts on getting through the maze and not on the way her eyes were wet when she turned away from him.

The library was a labyrinth. Its paths were endless, as if an expansion charm had been cast on the room. There was a spell he’d read about but never had a reason to use until now. It turned one’s wand into a four-point compass directional. He tried to take the paths that would lead him north. It seemed the most logical, despite the lack of logic in the house.

Everything he’d said ricocheted through his mind. Tasted sour on his tongue. How wrong it all was. Maybe she did pity him a little, but he felt sorry for her, too. What was wrong with that? Empathy had taken a while for him to learn — years, really. He shouldn’t have been so ashamed of it now. Because he liked her tenacity. Liked that she fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. Liked all of the things that she was and he was not.

The room wanted them to be separated so it let them be separated. Maybe she was right and just being in the library had made him say all of the things he knew would sting. Or maybe he was just that much of an idiot. He couldn’t move the shelves or the books because he wanted to get back to her. The room wanted them apart so she was able to block his path to get away from him. If he were to reunite with her, he’d have to push her from his mind. To keep her safe.

It took longer than it should have, but he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, silently exhaling and picturing a small sea. Turquoise waters and soft sand. A near cloudless sky. Warmth and tranquility. Someplace beautiful, where he could put her on a boat and gently send her away from the shore. Until she crossed the horizon of his mind. Leaving him alone on a white beach.

When he opened his eyes his purpose was clear. He worked his way through, moving as quickly as he could between the endless rows. The maze was disorienting. Regardless of his compass directional spell he seemed to move in circles. But instead of a tight spiral he remained close to the edges.

Finally, he turned a corner and reached a dead end. There was a rather large, ornate vase against the wall. Porcelain with purple, hand-painted designs. Sweet cherry blossom trees and little brush strokes of grass. And a large Hebridean Black.

He looked at the Guardian. Looked around the shelves behind him. The path he’d taken had vanished, leaving him essentially in a room made of three walls of bookshelves.

“Guardian,” he said, squaring his shoulders, addressing it as an equal. “I’ve completed your maze. The room should return to normal now.”

“Oh, indeed?” It said, tilting its serpentine head as it assessed him. The trees beside it yawning on a breeze.

“Set it to rights so I can find—my partner. I won’t leave without her.”

“Well, it seems to me you shouldn’t have separated in the first place. That was a poor decision, Master Malfoy.”

A poor decision was a fucking understatement. He felt the panic creep its way back from the sea. What if she was hurt? Or lost so deep that he couldn’t find her? He couldn’t leave without her for so many reasons. Perhaps he could call one of the elves to retrieve her but he worried about how the magic of the room worked. Maybe he could send Tippy to find her, but she’d only be able to apparate them out. And that would leave him here alone. He had the portkey but it was spelled to transport two. Surely if only one of them used it, Robards would know. He’d be responsible for her.

The night she met Theo pushed its way to the front of his thoughts. They’d been waiting for her outside the Leaky Cauldron. Theo was having a smoke, though he promised he was going to quit someday soon. Just like Draco had promised he would drink less. They’d talked around her for a few minutes, focusing on the latest gossip from their House, when Theo did what he did best. He started to pry.

“Why’d they pair you together?”

Draco had taken a moment to realize Theo didn’t mean the brief yet ill-advised betrothal discussions between him and the younger Greengrass sister. A perfectly fine pureblood girl with all of the grace and social skills required to run a large home. And none of the wit or passion to keep him interested beyond the rather dull luncheon with both of their mothers a few weeks before.

“They didn’t—she volunteered,” he’d said, watching the puff of smoke leave Theo’s lips, trailing upwards in a spout.

“Did she?” Theo’s eyes were wide and he tilted his head, sucking in another long drag. “Maybe she likes looking at you almost as much as you like looking at her.”

He’d sputtered, caught off guard. “That’s not—I don’t—She’s just doing it because no one else will. Can’t resist another moment to be a hero. Work with the ex-Death Eater to get a promotion or whatever.”

“So you do then?”

“Do what?”

“Like looking at her,” Theo had said, grinning broadly as he lit a fresh cigarette between his teeth. Vanishing the stub of his last one with a casual flick.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve always noticed her, even if you deny it. How many times did you ask me about something she did in sixth year?”

Draco stared at him. “If I mentioned her it was in passing. We had half our classes with the Gryffindors and she was always interrupting—”

“And then there’s all the times we just happen to walk by this pub and you crane your neck looking for her.”

“I do not—”

“And then there’s that time you hid in the corner of Flourish and Blotts, watching her pick out books. Just admit—”

“There’s nothing to admit, Theo, stop running your mouth.”

For a moment, he did. For a moment, he merely smoked his cigarette and cast his eyes over Draco with a strange expression. All while Draco seethed with his hand in a tight fist at his side. “She fascinates you. And that’s what scares you.”

Before he could deny it, Granger had shown up. Setting the last few days in motion. Marching into his life and his job and under his skin.

The Guardian was his way out. His way back to her. “You are the protector of this house, for hundreds of years. For generations you’ve served the family and that includes Theodore Nott, Jr. correct?”

The Guardian merely stared at him. Blinking its amethyst eyes. Swishing its spiked tail across the vase. Through the dainty decorations.

“Theodore—Theo is with her, at least in spirit. Let her go. Open the library to me. Let me go to her.” With one last hope he added, “Please.”

The dragon settled its luminous gaze on him. And smiled. “What would you give to me to be with her once more?”

Anything.

“What is it that you want?”

In its ancient voice, it spoke another riddle. One he knew the answer to. “Something that is only yours, until you give it away.”

* * *

Hermione ran for maybe five seconds before skidding to a stop and stumbling over her boots. With her eyes squeezed shut she took a deep breath. When she’d first turned the corner into the stacks she’d heard him call her name. Had thought he would follow her. But now it was oddly quiet. The only sound her own tense breathing. She steeled herself and turned, ready to take the few steps back to him.

There was a wall of shelves where her path had been.

“Draco?” She called, turning around, looking for where he could have gone. It echoed through the library, tingling across her skin.

At first she had been seething, desperate to get away from him and glad to have left him. Glad for the pained expression on his face before she’d turned away. But it only took a moment for her to remember the way he clung to her in the early hours of the morning. And how his entire demeanor changed when he woke up. He was the one who denied. Always keeping to himself at the Ministry and clearing his desk at the end of the day. Never attending events, though she knew he’d been invited. Living like a ghost.

Panic crept through her. The shelves were twisting, pushing her deeper into the library. Rolling towards her. “ _Diffindo_!” She yelled, followed by a more powerful _Reducto_. Nothing. _Bombarda_. No change. Even an _Incendio_ , though it pained her a little to think about this many books burning, winked out as soon as it hit the shelves. She called his name over and over until her throat was sore. It didn’t so much as echo. She knew they shouldn’t separate. She’d known it before she’d made the decision to run but she did it anyway. The portkey was in her satchel. Maybe he would use it and leave her there. Come back with a team of Aurors to dismantle the house. Or maybe he would call for Tippy.

The only thing she could do was move through the halls of books. It wasn’t like a maze — there was only one path, with a shelf that crept behind her and urged her forward. The further she went, the smaller the room seemed, somehow. Like it was folding in on itself, like a letter. She kept her wand ready, and occasionally cast detection spells that didn’t reveal anything. It was just a library. It should have been a dream. Thousands upon thousands of books around her. The perfect diffused sunlight to read by. Absolute quiet.

But she didn’t so much as read the titles. Couldn’t imagine pulling one from the shelves. The only thing in her mind was a desperate need to get back to him. She repeated his name like a mantra, whispering it in her thoughts. Hoping that the shelves were pushing them back together.

The bookshelf in front of her remained in place. She waited for it to move, to lead her further. Instead she was surrounded by shelves. Her own little room of books. _He liked to lead me into different rooms and trap me there until I could find my way out,_ she heard Theo say in her memories. _Sometimes it was the library, if I was looking for a book for school. The shelves would move and I’d be in a cage._

The pounding in her ribs increased. She needed to think. Needed to figure this out. If she kept panicking she’d never get out. Never get back to him. Right. First, observe the surroundings. There were hundreds of books, of course, but she didn’t want to risk touching them. Even with her detection spells, she ran the risk of being sucked into one or releasing a ghoul or something equally terrible. The shelves were tall. She began to transfigure them into a sort of ladder.

As she hoisted herself up, climbing higher, the shelves seemed to stretch. She would be one rung from the top and then suddenly there would be three more. When she looked down, she was still only halfway up the shelf. A looping spell. There would be no way to reach the top. She’d hoped to have the advantage of seeing the room from above. To perhaps run across the tops screaming his name. Searching for that distinct shade of blond.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach she descended. Landing on the marble floor with a _thump_. Nothing had changed inside her room of books.

At her eye level was a small glass Guardian. Crystal clear except for the eyes. Like the little figurines her grandmother collected. She had an entire menagerie in a curio cabinet in the dining room. When she died, Hermione’s mum let her choose one to keep. She’d picked a pink cat that shattered across her bedroom floor only a few years later.

“Please,” she said, twirling her wand between her fingers. “Please, Guardian, open the path.”

“I could do that,” the Guardian said. Its voice was softer than the others, though still held the same eerie timelessness. “But what would you give me?”

“What would I give you?” She parroted, wondering what a small glass knickknack could possibly want or have use for.

“Yes. What would you give me to get to leave. What could you exchange for that privilege?”

Hermione had nothing to give. She had her wand, which she’d sooner die than lose. There was the pendant around her neck. It didn’t belong to her, not really. It wasn’t hers to give away. She slid it across the chain, comforted by the etched stars beneath her fingers. Draco had her satchel. There was nothing in her pockets. Not even a scrap of parchment. _I usually had to sacrifice something I cared about_ , Theo had said.

“What is it that you want,” she asked the Guardian. It smiled at her.

She worried that this was all part of the game. That she’d been lured into a false sense of security. That just by giving in to what the Guardian asked, she would be thrown into the maze in earnest. Facing bogarts and riddles and sinking floors. The ghost of Mad-Eye Moody telling her to stay vigilant. A portkey on a pedestal, transporting her someplace dangerous. Her own third task.

“I want to know something you keep secret. It’s more than fair, don’t you think?” The Guardian said

“A secret? I suppose I could share one. But what kind of—”

“I want to know why you run.”

“Why does anyone run?” She replied, keeping her voice as level as she could despite the sinking feeling in her stomach. “To get away from something.”

“But you don’t run away from things, do you?” The Guardian said. “Fear isn’t something you give in to. Answer my question. It’s really quite simple. Why do you run, Hermione Granger?”

The walls of shelves shifted closer. Leaning in to hear her secrets. Tightening the room. The crystal of the Guardian glinting in the light. Drawing her in like a moth to a candle. There was something beautiful beneath its surface. And like the numbing release of veritaserum, she found herself speaking.

“I’m afraid of what it means if I don’t run,” she said, peering at the little chips of amethyst.“I’m afraid of what it means that I relate to someone who always shunned me. And to not be afraid of him, but to instead want to be near him. Because he understands me, somehow. And it’s—thrilling. I think I missed things being…a challenge. So I’m afraid. I run because I’m afraid of the truth.”

“There. That doesn’t sound so frightening to me. Perhaps you’re just in need of rest. It will help you think more clearly,” the dragon said, demonstrating its preferred napping position.

Suddenly she _was_ tired. The floor was cold and hard but she curled up on herself, like the Guardian had done. Hugging her knees to her chest. Afraid of closing her eyes, she lay there for minutes or hours, watching the light refracting on the crystal scales of the Guardian. Thinking about all the things she tried desperately not to think about. A haunted face, reading piles of books at the table across from her in the Hogwarts library. Grey eyes and clever magic. How she clutched his arm in sleep like it was her childhood teddy bear. The steady way their breaths matched. Warmth and safety and the electric current of touch. That he was right. It was easier for her to fix things and deny herself. She needed to feel like she was helping, always, even if it meant keeping herself back.

When she woke she’d cast an immobilizing spell on him so that he wouldn’t wake when she slid away from him. While he slept for another hour she hoped that he slept deeply enough not to have noticed that she cuddled with him in her sleep. Returning a concussed kiss was one thing but she doubted he would have wanted her to spoon him. Especially when she was supposed to be taking care of him.

But he didn’t want her to take care of him. Just like she’d lashed out at Harry and her other friends when they’d meddled. Well-meaning attempts to get her to switch departments or move closer to Grimmauld Place. To speak with a memory charm expert about her parents. Pushing her in ways she wasn’t ready to be pushed. Pitying her. Poor Hermione, she’s all alone.

The walls shifted, creaking and groaning as the shelves broke apart. She stood quickly and aimed her wand at the opening, ready for whatever the house threw her way.

Draco stumbled around the corner, gasping for air. Calling out to her. When his eyes locked on hers he started to apologize.

“Stay back!” She shouted, pointing her wand at his chest.

“Granger, what—”

“Don’t come any closer!” She slashed her wand through the air, sending sparks as a warning.

“Alright,” he said, hands held in front of him. “It’s alright.” He took a tentative step closer.

“I said _don’t_!” More sparks.

“Merlin, what is it?” He made a show of putting his wand in his pocket and keeping his palms facing her.

She took a few breaths, focusing. “How do I know it’s really you?”

“What?” His brows furrowed, and there was a bead of perspiration at his temple, beneath the sleep-mussed hair he hadn’t bothered to style.

“Theo said—and we know the house plays tricks. How do I know this isn’t a trap? How do I know it’s you?” She whispered, the hand at her side dug her nails into her palm. The one holding her wand shook, and she raised it higher.

“Because I got through the maze and found the Guardian—”

“Well I found a Guardian too!” She jerked her head towards where it sat on the shelf. He glanced at it and rolled his eyes. She could have hexed him. Even if he was an illusion it would have felt good. But he seemed fully corporeal, at least. Maybe a hallucination, then.

“It’s really me. You can do whatever detection spells you need to do to feel better about it.”

“First year we had detention together. What was it?” She asked, thinking of the Order and how everyone had to be able to answer personal things to prove they weren’t polyjuiced or imperiused or otherwise befuddled.

“Seriously?” He huffed a breath.

“Answer the question before I jinx you something foul.”

“If you jinx me something foul how will I ever answer your question?”

“Draco!” She sent a stinging hex just beside his feet.

“Fuck’s sake, you nearly hit my shoe!” He caught her glare. “Fine—fine. We were sent to the Forbidden Forest to find an injured unicorn, which is about the most dangerous thing to have a couple eleven-year-olds do—”

“I was twelve.”

He laughed, low and under his breath. “Thanks for correcting me, Granger I know how much you love that.”

She laughed but it was more of a hiccup and kept her wand on him. Softly, she said, “What if I’m wrong?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been wrong in your life,” he answered just as quiet.

Another whisper. “But what if I have? This house…”

The look he settled over her made her shiver. It was that intense way he had of looking at her, like no one else did.

“We rode the lift together last month,” he said, stepping closer. “You were wearing blue robes with a coffee stain on one sleeve. In fourth year you very rudely took a book I was using from my table at the library and didn’t bring it back ‘in just a minute’ like you said you would. I had to write to my mother for the Manor’s copy. Shall I keep going or do you believe me now?”

Before he could finish she ran to close the distance between them, throwing her arms around his neck. Clinging to him. Holding him in a tight embrace. After a second he folded his arms around her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice muffled against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Apologizing over and over and never enough.

“I’m sorry too,” he whispered, the line of his nose grazing her ear.


	11. Chapter 11

Affection was for closed doors and special days. Like a birthday or Christmas morning. His parents would give one another a peck on the cheek or, more rarely, the lips, but only on a momentous day. They showed their affection in different ways. His mother had a smile that she reserved for him, for when he’d done something to make her proud. A nod from Lucius, with two tilts of his strong chin, was about as much as he’d ever get from his father. The occasional hand on his shoulder, just enough pressure to convey superiority above all else.

The last time he’d hugged his mother had been when they were reunited at the Battle of Hogwarts. It was short. Nothing like the embraces around him, multiplying through the Great Hall as friends and family members reunited and mourned. Loud and affectionate and nothing like his stiff, almost formal exchange.

Before that, Pansy had held onto him but they never held each other. Not in the way that he’d watched the Golden Trio hold each other. The touches they shared were born of her desperation not affection.

But now, in the library of Theo’s torture chamber of a house, Draco found himself held tightly. Because Hermione Granger had reached for him in the same way she’d always thrown herself at Potter and Weasley. Stretched up on the tips of her toes, pulling his neck so that he was nearer her height. With their faces close. The riot of curls on her head tucked beneath his chin, jaw resting against her temple. If he’d moved a millimeter he could feel her cheek against his lips. Not quite a peck, not quite a kiss. But a brushstroke. Instead he took something else. Flexed his fingers against the small of her back, where her jumper had ridden upward. A sliver of skin beneath the tip of his little finger.

She’d disentangled herself after a moment and let him lead her through the now straight path to the door by the Guardian’s vase. Guiding her arm with his hand hovering just behind it, not quite touching. Walking quickly. They were silent until the door clicked shut behind them and they could breathe in the safety of the study once more.

Only it wasn’t safer there. Because now he wanted to hold her again. Not in sleep but with his eyes open. Because once he’d felt what it was like, he craved it. An addict looking for a fix. Just one more taste. One more moment of skin on skin and he’d be free to ignore the conversation he knew they would have now that the metaphorical dust had settled.

“How did you find me?” She asked. The kindness in her eyes so different from the anguish when she’d turned away from him. Running.

“The Guardian opened a path but—”

“How did you get through the maze? The more I tried to get back to you the more trapped I became until…” She looked at her hands, twirling her wand over and over. The vine wood smooth and carved with tiny leaves.

“That was its goal, I think. To keep us apart. I took a guess that if I focused on getting out of the room instead of getting back to you, it would let me.” He didn’t want to meet her eye as he said it. Admitted that he had to act like he was going to just leave her there. Occluded hard to push her from his thoughts. “Once I made it to the Guardian I asked it to set the room to rights. Predictably it would do so only after I gave it something.”

Granger nodded. “That makes sense, I suppose. Getting back to you was all I could think about.” He looked up at her, and she held his gaze before looking away. “I had to give it something too. What did it ask of you?”

“For a secret, of course,” he said. “Is that what you had to give as well?”

“Yes. We don’t have to…tell each other.”

He scoffed, but it was more of a laugh than anything. “Absolutely not. Taking that to my grave.”

With the first bit of uncomfortable topics behind them, he pushed through to the next one. Wanting to be honest with her. Hoping that in doing so, she would understand. “I had to occlude,” he said, and she gave him a puzzled look. “To get through the labyrinth I had to clear everything else away. It was the only way— I wouldn’t have left without you. If it didn’t work I would have found you another way, Granger, I promise you.”

Her eyes widened and she blinked it away. “I know you would have.”

The tapestry above the fireplace was dark, and once he’d thought it seemed like early evening he felt inexplicably starving. They’d only been in the library for perhaps an hour, and they’d had a hearty breakfast before that.

“I think—we must have been lost for longer than we thought,” she said, taking the words from his thoughts. “Time doesn’t make much sense here but there was something especially strange in that room. It felt like hours lying on the floor.” Her face bloomed at the admission.

Draco thought for a moment. When he’d been winding through the maze it had felt like minutes, maybe. And talking with the Guardian seemed to be fairly short — a brief hello and sharing his deepest secret, nothing major. But things were always fuzzy when he occluded as extensively as he’d needed to to save her. Like everything around him was a sea-salt breeze and the rush and roar of the tide.

“Another day lost, then,” he said, removing her satchel and setting it on one of the armchairs. “Would you want to discuss our supper options? I think what I’d like most in this world is an exceptionally old bottle of Ogden’s.”

As soon as he’d said it, a dusty old bottle popped into existence on the desk. One of the more rare vintages, likely from Senior’s wine cellar.

“Well, that was a pleasant surprise,” he said, noting the way her eyebrows creeped up her forehead. “Come on, Granger, have a drink with me.”

A crystal decanter and four glasses on a silver tray were tucked into the corner of one of the shelves near the desk. He levitated it closer and transferred the whiskey from its bottle to the decanter. Then, because he knew she’d ask, he pulled his potions kit from his pocket and went about testing the liquor for poison. Adding a cooling charm to the decanter in lieu of ice.

“I guess it’s been…a bit of a day,” she said as she took a few steps closer, until they stood side by side in front of the desk that was their work table, dining table, and occasionally an actual desk. Draco poured two fingers of whiskey and slid the glass in front of her before giving himself a more generous pour.

“Everything this morning was—well, I forgot to show you what the Guardian gave us. In the gallery.” Granger summoned her satchel and pulled from its depths a large key, handing it to him.

It was old and ornate, like most of the things in the estate.

“Not exactly a door we could test it on,” he said, turning it over in his hands. There were no etchings. Nothing that hinted of what it opened. “If only it would get us to Zahra’s bathroom. I could use another shower.” And he hated the Potty Notty Toffees, too. Convenient, but horrid. And made by a Weasley.

She laughed, “If only.”

“Ask and you shall receive,” came the voice of the Guardian. They both snapped their heads to the mantle. The Hebridean Black stalked across the tapestry, eying them with an amused smile. Then, in its preferred flair for dramatics, it shot straight into the air with a mighty flap of its wings. Climbing higher and higher into the dark sky until it was no more.

There, along the wall in between the shelves, a door materialized. Identical to the one in Zahra’s suite. This time, it had a keyhole. The same size as the key Draco held in his hand.

With a quick look to Granger, he readied his wand and tried it in the lock. With a soft click, the door opened, and there before them was the lavish bathing room.

“Well, fuck,” he said, huffing a laugh. “It seems its a skeleton key.”

She’d already performed her detection spells over his shoulder. “Are we going to have to flip a coin to see who gets to go first?”

“Granger whatever Muggle nonsense that is don’t trouble yourself. I’m a gentleman, you’re a lady. Isn’t the saying ladies first?”

With a roll of her eyes she pushed her way past him and into the room, shutting the door behind her. For a brief moment he worried the door wouldn’t open again. How long until it was reasonable to panic, he thought. Perhaps thirty minutes. Maybe an hour.

The glasses of whiskey dripped condensation onto the wooden desk. It had been a few days since his last drink — not that he drank every day but it was leaning more towards most days, recently. With the increasing opinion pieces in the _Prophet_ and the unfortunate run-in with the elder Weasley weighing on him.

Draco took a sip of the Ogden’s. It was smoother than the bottle he usually went with. A net positive for something old and expensive. With the added delight of belonging to a man he hated. As he continued to drink, letting the spice and heat of it coat his throat, he toasted to Theo. Of all the things he hoped his friend would do with the Nott family fortune once the final legal hiccups were resolved.

He spent a few minutes looking at the titles of the books closest to the desk. Things that Nott Senior felt the need to access quickly and have displayed for his associates. _Magick Moste Evile_ and all that rot. Titles his own father inherited from his father and so on. A few family diaries and pureblood lineage books rounded out the shelves. Things he’d seen before, making a game of finding the worst of the incest before he was old enough to fear being married off to a second cousin.

Another glass of whiskey while he thumbed through a few potions texts he’d read before. There weren’t many he hadn’t sought out over the last few years, and nothing in the bookshelves before him was new or notable. Senior had a massive potion’s lab and likely kept the more interesting and important texts there for easy reference. If the house ever showed them that door he’d planned on rooting through them and taking what he wanted.

Granger returned, her presence announced by a pleasant smell he could describe from memory. Half-bloomed roses, right around the spring equinox. A light, almost sweet scent that caught on the wind and made its way through his open window at the Manor. Just a week before his mother would exclaim, “The roses have truly outdone themselves this year,” over breakfast. Like she did every year. Not that she did much in the way of gardening.

“Did you find a different soap?” He asked, mentally berating himself.

She finished drying her hair, twirling a few curls around her wand in a way that made him envious of the wood. How he longed to wrap a tendril around his finger then watch it twist itself away. “I tried asking for different things to see if the rules of this room applied to the bathing room. It seems that if something exists within the house in one room, it can be summoned to another.” When he perked up at that she went on, “Except for the potion. I did try but nothing.” She paused to laugh. “Theo’s hair — I had a feeling he must use something special for his waves. I’ll have to thank him later.”

To thank Theo for the way she looked right now or to curse him for it, because it was hard to ignore the way she glowed. Like a skin polishing charm, only he knew that wasn’t the cause. Had seen Pansy apply them enough times to understand the glamour. This was different. Draco tried a complimentary smile but suspected it looked more like a grimace, then he downed the rest of his drink and took his turn with the shower. Zahra Nott may have preferred lavender and other florals for her shampoo and soaps but he didn’t fancy smelling like an herb garden mixed with whatever clung to his skin and hair from the trials of the house. Not to mention the medicinal potion scents from Granger’s healing. So he called for all of Theo’s soaps and shampoo and a shaving kit. Even the expensive moisturizer he knew his friend ordered from a specialty shop.

While the steam and hot water rid him of the lingering dirt and ash his thoughts weren’t as easily cleansed. They’d both apologized, but he knew it wasn’t enough to just say the words. He’d said them so rarely in his life he knew that forgiveness was not instant. He’d known that intimately. How could an _I’m sorry_ do anything for him when he’d done so much to warrant feeling sorry? Especially when it came to Hermione Granger.

The razor took care of the faint stubble on his jaw. Not that he could grow an impressive beard if he tried. Once he’d dressed again, after pressing his clothes and casting more freshening charms, he tousled his hair and went to face her.

Ingredients and cooking pots floated around her. A fresh glass in her hand and a fresh pour in his once she saw him. This time, he helped with the chopping. More than a little pleased with himself when she complimented the evenness of his cuts. Helping her make something called a stir fry.

Throughout their dinner he felt the words forming on his tongue but they evaporated before he could release them. Instead they talked of all manner of things — potions, Muggle healing methods — but always at the surface. He drank to keep the easy calm they’d fallen into. Not enough to send him into a fog but just enough to hold onto the pleasantness of her company. Before he ruined it by opening his mouth.

“Granger, what I said before—”

“It’s alright. The room and…well, we’ve been through quite a lot,” she said, nursing her drink. They’d gone through about half the bottle over the course of the evening. The kind of slow imbibing that took hours and left you warm and sated. “You were hurt and I gave you quite a lot of pain potions and—”

“Would you just let me apologize in earnest? While I have the liquid courage, at least.”

“That’s a Muggle saying,” she said, not an accusation so much as a statement.

He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply through his nose, letting it out silently. Waves lapping at the shore. When he looked back at her, ready to talk, she interrupted.

“Is that occlumency?”

“A bit…yeah,” he replied, feeling somewhat ashamed.

“Do you do that a lot?” She asked. “It’s just…Sometimes you get this look and I wondered.”

“It makes it easier.”

“Makes what easier?”

Another deep breath but without the tide to carry it out. Without the assistance with his emotions. Only the truth. “Being a former Death Eater. Settling for what society has decided I’m allowed. Putting on the show.”

It was what he knew how to do best. His father had shown him from an early age. _This is how you get what you want, Draco_. With fine robes and sleek hair and heirloom jewelry. Rigid posture and sneers and a voice of haughty authority. Demanding. Calculating. But it had always felt like pretend. Letting the facade slip away in sixth year was almost liberating, even though it was replaced with guilt eating away at him. Fear burning him from a brand on his arm. Exhaustion that never seemed to leave him. Dragon Pox patients had looked better than he did at sixteen, Theo told him.

“But you’re not always,” she said, drawing him from his thoughts. She held her glass with both hands. Cradling it.

“You’re right, sometimes I’m rubbish at it,” he said with a laugh, a single note that he scrubbed away with a rough hand on his jaw. “Actually I was always rubbish at it.”

“At pretending?”

“That. Being a Death Eater. Making my father proud. They’re all the same thing, aren’t they?” His hands flexed, one against his empty glass and the other from where it rested on the back of the sofa. Wanting the warm security of another fire whiskey. The thing he reached for when his occlumency failed him. And it was failing him now, while he made pathetic confessions to Hermione Granger’s warm eyes and smooth skin.

“You’re a skilled wizard. That should make your father proud.” He smiled at her positivity. At how wrong she was. “And you weren’t really a Death Eater—”

With a wave he sent his glass to the side table, the magic surprising her. Lower lip tugged between her teeth, draining it of color before it deepened to a darker pink on release. He yanked his jumper off and tossed it onto one of the chairs, not bothering to fold it. Then he methodically unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his sleeves to the elbows. First the right arm, then the left. Where the faded tattoo of a skull and snake rested against his skin.

“I was a Death Eater, Granger. This says it clearly. For all to see.”

“It’s just…Don’t be angry with me,” she said, worrying her lip once more. He squinted at her then relaxed back in his seat. “I read your file.”

He sat back up.

“So don’t try to pretend with me about what you did. I already know.”

Sighing, he summoned his glass and the decanter. Pouring another few fingers worth of liquor. She held her glass in front of him and gave him a challenging look when he hesitated to pour.

“Right. Of course you did. My sponsor and all.” He knocked half of it back and regretted it. The way it sizzled down his throat. Curling into his belly. Right around the words he still hadn’t said.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up. We should talk about something else—”

“I’m sorry for it all,” he sputtered, speaking quickly so that she couldn’t interrupt him again. “Everything. School — calling you a — and the things I was taught. Being…the way I was. What I did. I’m sorry.”

It was a shit apology. And now he’d ruined it. He’d never be able to do it better. For a moment they sat in silence. She looked at her drink and sipped it while he held his, afraid to take another gulp, afraid to look away from her face. When she met his eye she gave him what could have been a half smile, though it was laced with something sad.

“I know you are,” she said softly. “But thank you for saying it.”

“I didn’t say it very well.” Bloody understatement.

“But you meant it. More than that you’ve shown it. To me and others.”

The slur on her arm was partly covered by her sleeve but he could make out the last few letters. “How did I show it to you? By standing to the side while my aunt…” he reached towards her arm, hovering above it. Letting his fingers trace the shape of the letters before pulling back.

“That’s not your fault,” she said, tugging her sleeve down. The silence was heavy against his chest. Pressing down against his lungs until he couldn’t keep it there any longer.

“Sometimes I ask myself which is worse, watching someone being tortured and doing nothing or torturing someone else, just to save your own skin.” He swallowed. “I’ve done both and I can’t say I know the answer.”

“I don’t blame you for it. What were you to do? Attack a deranged Death Eater? Your own aunt, in front of your parents—”

“Granger, let me feel sorry for being a piece of shit. If not for that night then for all the years preceding it.”

“Draco, we were children,” she said simply.

“I’m not sure that’s an excuse for me. You were off teaching defensive spells in secret with Potter and I was getting indoctrinated and joining a bloody cult—”

“Voldemort didn’t exactly allow the word ‘no,’ I imagine. And he sort of commandeered your home. Not much you can do as a fifteen-year-old but obey.”

“True. Obedience and self-preservation is the Malfoy way.”

“I don’t think that’s all of it.”

“Cowardice, too,” he said with a scoff. “Can’t forget that.”

“I think it takes a certain type of bravery to do what you did to protect your family. Maybe the means weren’t the best but in the end—”

“But I didn’t protect them, did I? My father’s half mad in Azkaban and my mother…”

_I’m fine, Draco. You really mustn’t worry, darling._

“What about your mother?” She pressed, reaching for the whiskey. They were both long past the ability to cast a summoning charm let alone pour a drink with magic.

“She deserves better than the life she has now. Alone in a big house, without friends or much purpose. The events calendar isn’t exactly full for someone with our surname. And she’s developed a bit of a social anxiety. It’s hard for her to leave the house.” An understatement. Where Narcissa Malfoy once paraded around Diagon Alley in her finest robes, jewels on display and hair coifed, she now nearly exclusively wore dressing gowns and spent most of her days watching the peacocks roam the grounds. Sending letters to Azkaban that were largely unanswered. Brushing off her melancholy with _it’s just a headache, I’ll be be fine, darling_.

“Perhaps she just needs some time to adjust.” Granger set her glass on the table. “It took me a while to feel comfortable around large groups of people. I still don’t really like crowds. Weekends I’m usually just alone at my flat.”

“Can’t say I enjoy being around people either,” he admitted. “And what do your parents make of everything?”

Being Muggles, he wondered how much they even knew of the war or the rebuilding. If she’d told them about him. What side he was on. What they’d think now, when he couldn’t stop looking at her.

“They don’t know about it.”

“I wondered if you’d burden them with it. Makes sense to tell them as little as possible,” he replied.

“It’s worse than that,” she said, gazing over her shoulder at the fire. Getting lost in the flames. “I obliviated them. A week after term ended sixth year.”

The air was tight. Ringing in his ears. “You made them forget you’re a witch?”

“No,” she said, facing him. Letting the weight of her gaze and the sadness along the edges settle over him. “I made them forget me.”

“But that’s…”

“I know,” she turned away again, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. When she opened them she took a breath and cricked her neck. “It was the only way to keep them safe. I spent two week leading up to it preparing new documentation for them and putting their house for sale. They’d always talked about visiting Australia and I thought…well, that was the furthest place I could think of. So they became the Wilkins’. No children. Just a happy couple moving to the Gold Coast to start a new chapter. Everything else was settled and I left.”

He’d always known she never did anything by halves. If anyone was to protect her parents, she was the one to do it. A safe house wouldn’t be enough. Not for the most famous Muggleborn in generations. Not for one who’d caught the notice of the Dark Lord.

“I’m sorry you had to do that,” he said, wanting to comfort her somehow. With a hand on her shoulder or an arm around her, holding her again. But he didn’t know how to do that. “Memory charms are hard to reverse but not irreparable. There are potions—Have you seen them? Have you tried?”

She sighed, not the kind of sigh that said _you’re an idiot_ , but the kind that said so much more. “Not yet. I’m not sure that I should. What if they’re happier now? How could I take that away from them after I took everything else? It just…How is that fair? It doesn’t seem right. I already betrayed them once.”

What he wouldn’t give for the ease others had with touch. To be able to just reach out and do anything to smooth the pain from her brow. The tightness of her fist in her lap. He wanted to tell her that she was brave. That she was beautiful and stronger than she thought she was. And oh, how desperately he wanted to kiss her.

“It’s your decision to make,” he tried, hoping it was close to the right thing to say.

“There’s no one in my life I can talk to about them. No one who knew them. It’s been four years — longer if you count the time away at Hogwarts and summers with the Order. When I did it we weren’t as close, not that it made it easier but…It feels as though my own memories of them are slipping away.” A long pause. “What will I be left with then?”

He tapped his thumb on the rim of his glass, watching as the dregs of his drink tilted from side to side, rather than meet her eye. “You can talk to me about them. If you want. I know it’s not the same because I didn’t know them but if you’re trying to hold onto a memory, mine is pretty decent.”

“You can too, you know.” When he looked up she smiled. “Us not quite orphans might have more in common than people think.”

Draco finished his drink and vanished the glass, pleased that he’d managed the simple magic. “The majority of the wizarding world are quite vocal about what they think of me. Think twice before lumping yourself in with me, Granger.”

She stared at him long enough that he raised his eyes to look at her. Planning on quirking a brow and making some stupid comment in the hope of making her laugh. Instead she seemed deep in thought, and he realized that at some point they’d shifted closer together. With her knee curled up on the sofa, resting against his thigh. When she tilted her head, resting it on her fist, the abundance of curls spilled over her arm and onto the back of the couch, covering his knuckles.

When she spoke she looked from his eyes to his mouth and back, looking away for a second then back again. Voice lower than usual, like speaking a secret out loud. “I don’t have to think twice about things. Especially when I know that I’m right.”

He tilted his head towards her, looking at her lips then back to her brown eyes, amber in the firelight. The hitch of her breath made his heart pound. With a careful finger he traced her jaw, then ghosted the line of her lower lip. One of her hands grazed his chest, bunching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him.

“What are you doing?” She breathed, the warm air caressing his hand.

“I don’t know,” Draco answered, pulling her chin towards his. Whispering against her lips. “I don’t know.” And he didn’t, not really. He knew it wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. And he wasn’t the one to do it. But he did it anyway. Took the last little bit of space between them and smothered it. Until there was only her lips and his lips and the way they came together. The warmth of her mouth and the feel of her skin under his touch.

He kissed her soft as fresh snow. Delicate as a faerie’s wings. Fiery as the breath of the dragon that followed them from room to room.

The hand on his shirt skirted upwards and the other reached for him as he reached for her. Their bodies connected where they could — her arms wound around his neck, elbows pressing his shoulder blades so that their chests were closer. They twisted to face each other and leaned into gravity. He swept her hair from her neck and held her against him, one hand firm at the small of her back. The other cradling her jaw, feeling the thrum of her pulse beneath his fingers where they trailed down her throat. How it raced. The most delectable staccato.

Kissing her was like breaking into his father’s finest whiskeys. The risk worth the reward. Everything about it tasted sweeter than he’d imagined. The last time he kissed her he’d been half conscious. This time he reveled in it. Pouring the want from his blackened soul into every movement. In the desperate way they clung to each other. The slide of her tongue against his. Nourished by the sounds she made when he tugged at her plush lower lip with his teeth.

Hands pressed against his chest, pushing him back against the sofa. Before he could wonder why she bracketed his hips with her thighs, kissing him thoroughly with her hands at his jaw. He savored the sweet little moan she made when she rubbed against him. One of his hands moved to her hip, the lush curve he’d longed to touch, dragging her right where he sought friction. She melted against him and he drank her down. Heady and consumed with her. Drunk on a daydream come to life, the taste—

A loud crack like apparition jolted them apart. Wands summoned instantly. She breathed heavily and clenched her jaw. They swept the room, back to back, with his hand still lightly pressed against her hip. Keeping her close. It was a new door. _Of fucking course_. The brief moment of fear had helped the increasing situation in his trunks but he made himself think about complicated potion formulas and his great aunt Gemini’s porcelain doll collection until it calmed down. Like a horny third year. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone by clever fingers. He closed them before she could see his scars.

This time it wasn’t a true door, not really. It looked more like a gate, with plants curling around it and into the room. Tangling vines and dark green leaves. The scattering sounds of animals. With cold air seeping into their warm study. Snuffing out the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cockblocked by a door 🚬💀 the audacity of this house.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a mild content warning for this chapter. Please see the end notes.

The study was dark — only thin wisps of smoke from the extinguished candles were visible against the faint bit of light from the enchanted window. Hermione gripped her wand. She’d had a fair amount to drink but cast _lumos_ with ease. The door that had appeared was an iron gate, covered in vines that seemed to weave through the bars, creeping along the floor closer to their feet. Alive.

“Here,” Draco said, extending a small vial to her. “A sort of Pepper-Up Potion. It’s fairly concentrated so just a drop should do it.”

She nodded and did as he said, the minty taste far more pleasant than the standard variety that caused steam to press through one’s ears. Another of his brews that she wanted to question him about.

“The plants are moving,” she said instead. They’d started to reach for the bookshelves on either side of the gate, stretching their stems higher. “I don’t think this room will let us wait.”

Draco shrunk and pocketed his potions kit then hastily put his jumper back on. An extra button of his shirt was undone and there was a hint of pink blush on his neck. She followed it up to his disheveled hair — she’d done that to him, the buttons and his hair and the heat — and blushed. Running her fingers through her tangle of curls before tugging her own jumper back down over her jeans. He grabbed her satchel from the armchair and cast a warming charm over each of them.

“So we don’t have to fuss with coats and scarves,” he said. It was courteous — the fine manners of his upbringing on display. For someone he’d once thought beneath him. But that was before. She knew that now. Knew that he’d left a lot of things in the past and so did she.

With a quick clearing of his throat he cast his own illumination spell and they approached the door. None of her detection spells did a thing in this house but she cast them anyway, hoping that something would give them any sign of what was to come. It didn’t. She no longer marked the doors with runes. There didn’t seem to be a point, especially now that they had a skeleton key. They took careful steps from the plush carpet of the study to the dirt floor beyond the gate.

As soon as they’d passed the threshold, the vines knit themselves together, over and under and back again until there was no door. Only endless darkness and trees that extended acres behind them. As if they’d been deposited in the middle, not the start. They stood in a vast forest, on a meandering path. The eerie silence of the earth was heavy between the sounds of creatures echoing around them.

Hermione’s wand light was dim, so she cast a more powerful _lumos_. The light flickered and faded. She looked at Draco just as his own wand went dark. A guttural, clicking sound like claws to the right. A rustle to the left. A gurgle behind them.

“It’s a darkness curse,” she whispered. “I don’t think we can find its source in a place this big.”

As her eyes adjusted, she could see more of their surroundings. Tall trees and lush bushes, moss on the earth beneath their feet. Little luminescent mushrooms that glowed purple in the pale moonlight from above the canopy. Patches of puddles beneath dripping branches.

“Right, so any attempt illumination is worthless. We can use the moon and some of the plants to stay on the path, at least. Until whatever beast is lurking in the jungle makes itself known,” Draco said, and she couldn’t decide if it was his usual deadpan humor showing or if he was making a statement about their predicament.

“I actually have a bit of a workaround,” she said. “Will you open my bag?”

He removed it and held the sides so that the (not strictly legal) expansion charm was open to her. The little glass orbs of bluebottle flames flew into her hand with her summoning charm. Then she levitated the lights to hover in front of them, like a torch.Because she hadn’t created the flames within the darkness curse, they stayed bright.

When she stepped forward his long fingers clasped her wrist. “We should stay together this time,” he said, jaw tight. “Just in case.”

She turned her hand and his grip loosened. Before he could pull away she looped her thumb around his and gave his palm a squeeze. Their fingers brushed, skating over knuckles until their fingers laced. The silver of his signet ring was cold but his skin was warm. When she pressed against his hand he pressed back.

Hermione had loved Ron, yes, but it was a young love. What was expected of them. Fueled by fondness and naivety. History, more than anything. It was a coupling without desire or passion. Something that had seemed inevitable but hadn’t really grown beyond the fondness and the history.

She knew desire. Had known it since sixth year, when she quite literally collided with it outside the library. Slamming straight into Draco Malfoy as he skulked about the castle. As he’d been doing all year, in his dark clothes with dark circles under his distinctive grey eyes. She’d muttered an apology and he merely glared at her, something vicious curling with his lip and behind his tired eyes. It wasn’t the fact that she had run into him that did it. No, that had felt like hitting a particularly rigid wall. It was the overwhelming memory that washed over her. Of her amortentia from two months prior. The wafted steam from the potion was distinct to each person who stood over it. _A powerful love potion, Amortentia mimics that which attracts us. Not always in the literal sense, mind you_ Professor Slughorn had said, _My own often smells of Madame Glossy’s Silver Polish!_ Fitting, for a man who collected people like trophies.

During class it had seemed easy enough to decipher her own scent. What she’d thought was freshly mown grass, smelled on the quidditch pitch during Gryffindor tryouts. Mixed with a touch of something woodsy she’d thought she’d smelled in Ronald’s cologne. And mint — like the toothpaste he’d once bashfully pointed to on her lip. It all made sense. She’d liked him for years. Of course her amortentia smelled like him.

But crashing into Draco that day outside the library was like slipping into the pink potion. Until it was up to her chin. New parchment and earthy sandalwood and peppermint. Not the spearmint of Ginny’s toothpaste that she’d borrowed. A little bit sweeter, like the soft peppermint candies her parents used to give her on her birthday. Fresh grass and new bottles of ink and crisp, autumn air. She spent years denying that she thought him handsome, beneath the sneers. Not even confessing it to Ginny during a particularly vulnerable evening before term, when they’d wanted to talk of anything but the Order. And that denial ran right into her — turning left before she could investigate further.

It was years later, when she confirmed it. Knew without a doubt.

She learned of desire that day outside the library and it manifested the second he kissed her. Far too brief and brought on by concussed delirium but like a spark that she held onto. Cradled against her chest. When he kissed her a second time she knew passion. A burning, insatiable demand for _more more more_. Something she never had with another. She’d felt pleasure — required it, however difficult to reach with previous partners or on her own when sleep eluded her or she had the urge. But passion — that was like casting a patronus. It seemed impossible until it wasn’t. Until it was as easy as breathing. As easy as kissing him back. Taking what she desperately wanted. Even if it had been spurred on by fire whiskey and the need to smother the pain of loss that they both felt. It was easy to lose herself in the memory of his mouth on hers, barely an hour ago.

The forest floor sloped downward, and the path veered right, near a patch of nightshade with its dark leaves rustling. With her bottled flames lighting their way, the trees around them were more detailed. But instead of brown trunks and green leaves everything was shades of dishwater grey and blue. Rotting. The bark chipping off in jagged pieces. Flakes in the air that moved like snow but looked like bits of some kind of ash. Getting trapped in spiderwebs.

There were beautiful things, too.

“That’s aconite,” Draco said, halting their steps to crane his neck nearer the delicate purple flowers. The leaves were poisonous but the roots were a valuable potion ingredient, particularly for wolfsbane. It was a rare plant. “I think we’re in the conservatory, technically.”

“Can’t even see any walls or a ceiling or anything. It’s like being in the middle of the woods.”

“Do you see that?” He said, squinting in the dark. She followed his line of sight to a shimmering spot by the base of a tree.

Hermione gasped. “It’s fur from a demiguise,” she said, “look at the way the leaves disappear behind it.”

A demiguise was a class XXXX creature. Extremely difficult to catch. She’d read enough about them to feel confident about what they found. To see a demiguise in person was incredibly rare, especially in this part of the world. They weren’t native to Britain or even Europe. She was tempted to go and collect the small pile of fur. It would be interesting to experiment with, and it wasn’t like the creature was here — it had probably scratched itself against the bark, leaving behind nearly invisible hairs. It must have been recently, too — as time went on, the hairs became opaque. That was why an invisibility cloak lost its power over time. Except for Harry’s, of course.

“Theo’s father used to talk about imports…I wonder if magical creatures were part of that,” Draco said, tugging her forward along the path and away from her discovery. The vegetation behind them curled in on itself, the leaves decaying and the flowers shriveling into nothing as they stepped further.

“Do you think we’re meant to be tempted?” Hermione said, leaning against his arm. Brushing his shoulder slightly with her cheek as she spoke. Stealing his warmth.

Draco blinked a few times, quick and then a longer blink. Occlumency.

“I just mean there’s a lot of rare magical plants and fungi. And then the demiguise. It’s all forbidden fruit. Maybe that’s what the room is? And we’re Hansel and Gretel.”

He still held her hand, fingers flexing slightly. Putting light pressure on her knuckles. He was good at that — the sort of touches that felt almost purposeful. She’d never given much thought about another person’s hands before. But she knew that Draco was left-handed. That the skin on his fingertips was calloused, with burn scars and long-healed scrapes and cuts across the knuckles. The hands of a potioneer. Of someone who’d been hit with curses.

“If the room really wanted us to be tempted to leave the path it would bring us tables full of pastries and the door to the laboratory,” Draco said. With long strides he quickened their pace, leading her over tree roots and around clusters of mouldering mushrooms. She decided now wasn’t the time to tell him of houses made of sweets in Muggle fairy tales.

A twig snapped behind them. With their wands aimed they turned, releasing their grips on each other’s hands. He shifted so that she was angled behind him, reaching back with a hand to keep her there, grazing her hip bone. She stepped around it until they were shoulder to shoulder. Equals.

A few meters away, just at the edge of the forest, was a rather thin-looking dog. Like the hunting hounds immortalized in stone in the sculpture room. It crept towards them, its ears pressed flat against its head and tail between its legs. Letting out a slow whine.

“Poor thing,” Hermione said. “Can see its ribs. Do you think it’s been stuck in here for the last few years? Like the troll?”

It slinked into the trees and out of sight before winding its way back onto the path, closer. Keeping its head down. The bottled lights were behind them now, so it was harder to see in the dark.

“Granger, we should keep moving. Leave it be,” Draco said, then turned, gently guiding her to do the same. A hand warm on her shoulder. The dog slowed and watched until she faced forward. The shiver beneath her skin trailed from her shoulder across her upper back, following the journey his fingers took down the length of her arm before twining with hers once more. Giving a squeeze.

It was a relief to feel his hand in hers. One that made her smile despite the cold air and the darkness. The sounds of cicadas and worse living in the trees beside them. Something brushed against her leg — it was the dog, keeping pace.

She held her wand between two fingers, and with a hesitation she reached down to pat its head. It was cold as ice and its fur was damp. When it turned to look up at her, she saw it was missing an eye and half of its face was green. Bits of fur rotted off of its flesh. Hermione gasped and stumbled back into Draco, who pulled her away from the creature. A crow cawed from above, swooping through the air in front of them. Wings flapping and swooshing as it landed on a branch, then clicked its beak before shooting back into the sky. Circling them.

The dog trailed them, too. And when she caught the bird in the light for a brief moment, she could tell that it, too, was no longer living.

“It’s a reanimation spell,” Draco whispered, practically dragging her through the muddy path, almost at a jog. “There were a few Death Eaters who liked to experiment with it at the Manor. Taunting my father with his favorite peacock after it died was a game to them. It’s similar to an inferi.”

“They hate fire but the darkness curse will cancel out any spell to summon flame. Just keep going,” she said. With a sharp flick of her wand she set the bottled flames to circle them, acting almost as a shield. It kept their undead companions from getting too close again.

The air felt thick, and wet with precipitation. The sort of misty rain that didn’t drop so much as hovered, leaving a thin layer of damp over everything. The ground was slick beneath her boots and between the mud and the bumpy roots bisecting the path she was grateful for their tread.

“It’s beginning to feel like that first year detention all over again,” Draco said. “Half expecting a hooded figure to appear and demand blood.”

Hermione had never seen so many death-cap mushrooms in one place before. Even dried ones at an apothecary. Hazy little clouds of lacewing flies clustered together over plants that smelled like rotten fish. A blue bird that may well have been a Jobberknoll perched on a branch high above her head. Fluxweed and knotgrass, valerian and lavender, all sorts of magical and Muggle plants surrounded them. It was a potion master’s dream.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if that happened,” she said.

The mist began to thicken and the ground sloped downward. They halted their steps, facing a fork in the road. Like a poem she’d read as a girl. Two roads diverged in a haunted wood. On one path, the mist continued. Wisps of water and cold air. A darker path. On the other, it was dry. With what looked like sunlight ahead. Color and warmer air. A little too perfect.

“Think we’re meant to take the nicer looking one?” Draco said, giving her hand a light squeeze.

“It’s meant to take us deeper, I think. Lead us into a false sense of security. We should stick with the one we’re on.”

“Further into the wet it is, then,” he sighed, casting an umbrella charm that didn’t help much, followed by another warming spell that did.

Or maybe it was the constant of his hand in hers that kept her from shivering. The little flexes against her knuckles, fingertips pressing against the fine bones at the back of her hand. Holding hands with Ron was a rare occurrence, and never one either of them enjoyed. He said that her grip was too tight. His own was clammy, even in winter. Weasleys run hot, he’d say. It was an intimate activity, Hermione thought. She’d sooner kiss someone at a pub before holding hands with them. And wasn’t that an odd thing? Of all the dates she’d been on, and admittedly it wasn’t that many, none of them ended walking hand in hand through the park. Yet she held hands with Draco as if it were the most natural thing.

The further into the mist the more miserable their steps. Squelching mud, reanimated rats skirting around them and crows flying above them, and an endless feeling of foreboding. They talked to keep focused on moving forward.

“The shield you produced,” Draco began, taking care to raise a low branch out of their way, disturbing some flakes of lichen in the process. “The one in the gallery. It looked like—How did you do that?”

“Oh, well, it just sort of…happened. In the moment,” she replied.

“You mean you didn’t cast some new spell you invented?”

“No I cast a _protego_ but I was pretty focused on the best way to keep you safe,” she blushed, “in that moment. And I was angry, more than anything. I think my magic must have held onto that and pulled from the wreckage to create a stronger shield.”

He was thoughtful for a moment. “I read once that magic reacts differently depending on our emotions. Anger often leads to powerful outbursts. That’s usually the earliest magic a witch or wizard experiences. Something brought on by intense emotion.”

Hermione chuckled, low so as not to disturb anything that might have lurked in the shadows. She thought she saw a pair of glowing yellow eyes staring at them from a shrub at one point, but everything about this forest made her paranoid. A butterfly would make her jump out of her skin if it landed on her. “When I was young, my mother wouldn’t let me read at the dinner table. It wasn’t polite.”

“I’m sure that didn’t stop you.”

“Of course not. Especially when I only had a few chapters left. So I would hide my book in my lap. We had a bit of a row over it one night and— you’ll laugh at me, I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“What? You can’t just—Granger, I promise if I laugh it is an incontrollable response.”

“Well, I just wanted to read without anyone bothering me and so my magic chose that moment to manifest and…the tablecloth sort of created a tent for me. And my parents couldn’t get inside. They were yelling my name for a few minutes until I realized something was wrong. They tossed it up to my being stubborn. A week later I learned what Hogwarts was.”

“And that you were a witch,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes, that too.”

“One who made private reading rooms at the dinner table. And here I thought this story was supposed to be funny, not relatable.”

Hermione blushed again, remembering that he’d liked to climb atop bookshelves as a boy. Relatable indeed.

A patch of white flowers caught her eye. Galanthus Nivalis — snowdrops. A pretty little flower she’d always loved. An ingredient in a number of potions. Like Jobberknoll feathers. And sage, dried and turned into a powder. And stewed mandrake. Things that came together to create a memory potion. She’d considered it before as a means to help her parents. There was some research about its effectiveness in retrieving obliviated memories but she’d wanted to push the theory more. Only she didn’t have her own potions laboratory. Her apartment was in a Muggle building and terribly small. Renting a lab at the Ministry was an option, but she worried it would raise questions. And she hated questions these days. Unless she was the one asking.

She didn’t realize she’d wandered from the path until she felt a tug, then a more urgent pull at her hand.

“Where were you going?” Draco asked, using the hand not holding hers to square her shoulders, turning her fully away from the flowers.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were wandering off. Again.” He sounded upset with her and she let her shoulders drop, losing the touch of his hand in the process.

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “The snow drops…”

“Promise me you won’t do it again.”

“I wasn’t—” They started moving, a clipped pace that she kept up with, eyes on the forest floor while he tugged her along. On the dried leaves beneath her feet, speckled with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

“Promise me,” he said again, his grip tightening.

“I was just thinking about the different potions we could make and—”

“That’s what the room _wants_ you to do. To leave the path and get lost, just like you did in the library.” He let out an exasperated noise, one that was echoed by the birds perched in the canopy. “I can’t do that again, Granger. You can’t just leave. However easy it might be for you to…nevermind. Just keep up, I’m not doing this again.”

She stayed quiet after that. Focusing entirely on lengthening her strides. It made her lament the days of being in the wild, hiding from snatchers and hunting horcruxes, if only for the way it taught her how to run without looking back. Without getting lost in the hope that lay off the path.

The trees began to thin, and their undead companions fell behind. Back into the shadows and the leaves. The stillness returned but the unease began to lighten as the mist dissipated. Leaving only soft moonlight and finally, the way out.

At the end of the path was a large gardening table, not unlike the work tables in the greenhouses at Hogwarts. Trowels and long dead sprouts in tiny pots across its surface. There was a wooden Guardian, too. Crudely carved of oak. And covered in grime. Behind the table was a wall made of paneled glass — cloudy greens and blues. Some of it cracked by vines.

“Guardian,” Draco called, his warm hand still steadily entwined with hers. “Have we completed this room?”

The wooden carving blinked, and they took that as a yes. To the left a thin door peered through the vines. There would be no prize for them here but relief.

Beyond the door was a lengthy hallway, one side the same paneled glass and the other the stone of the estate’s exterior. Through the colored glass Hermione could still see the trailing vines and overgrown plants of the conservatory. And she wondered if there really was a demiguise wandering around in the forest. Unseen. Left alone.

“You alright, Granger?” Draco asked. She looked up at him and nodded.

“I think so. Just tired,” she said. It had been a long day. Or perhaps it had been days. Certainly days since she’d slept soundly. Though the memory of being curled up on the sofa, stealing warmth and comfort from him, begged to differ.

They moved through the hall, clearing cobwebs and sticks and broken glass as they went. When at last they reached the study door Hermione took a deep breath. It was only after the door shut behind them that she felt less steady. He’d let go of her hand.

They were mostly quiet as they took their turns with the bath. She ordered some basic foods to snack on and poured glasses of water. Too exhausted to cook, even with magic. They talked a little about what they’d seen but nothing about what they’d done before being sent through the misty path of the conservatory. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps it had been a fleeting moment.

“Shouldn’t we at least have tried to take something from the greenhouse?” She asked. “I know leaving the path was a risk but maybe now that we’re back here, we can use the key and—”

“No,” he said, the syllable sharp. “We’re not going back there, Granger.”

“But—”

“Let it go.” He stoked the fired and she cleared their meal. A quiet, tandem domesticity to their movements. She snuck glances at him when she could risk it. There was something in his eyes — the lack of warmth she had begun to recognize as occlumency. And she wondered what it was he had to keep locked away in his mind.

“Who taught you?”

“Taught what?”

“Occlumency. It’s not really something you can learn from a book.” The burn of shame crept down her neck. She watched him sink further into it, answering in a toneless voice that pressed against her ribs.

“My aunt, at first. To help with the Dark Lord’s assignment. Then Professor Snape, when he interfered. After that my mother.”

Hermione thought about the advice she’d read in the few books she’d read on the subject. “Aren’t there different methods? Wouldn’t having more than one teacher make things difficult?”

“Yes and no. Sometimes different methods work better for the situation.”

“Whose method are you—”

“Granger, if you can tell when I’m occluding then it would stand to reason that I don’t wish to talk. Just because you know most things doesn’t mean you’re allowed to know everything.” The words were sharper than his tone. The emotion didn’t match their meaning.

“I—you’re right. Of course. Sorry.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her curiosity and thirst for knowledge was something that others praised her for. But it was also the thing that got her into trouble. The thing that drove a wedge between her and her peers, labelling her a swot at best and a know-it-all at worst. It was a lonely start to her schooling at Hogwarts, and at times, even with Harry and Ron by her side, it was easy to slip back into those feelings. Neither of them wanted to talk about school or different magical theories. She was often adrift in the Gryffindor common room, where talk of quidditch and games of exploding snap ruled. And she was alone with her books and her cleverness.

“I think we’re both tired,” he said at last. “We could use a good rest before the next task.”

She wondered if they’d sleep side by side, like when he was injured. If she would be able to press her back against his chest. Breath in the scent of him until sleep took her.

Instead he transfigured his lounge, said goodnight, and lay with his back to her. Breathing far too even to truly be asleep. He’d told her he rarely slept well. Had made his own special sleeping draught.

“Draco?” She whispered, staring at the ceiling above her.

It took a long time for his reply. “What is it?”

“I promise I won’t leave you.”

Another several minutes passed, and she wondered if she should say it again. Say it as many times as she needed to until he believed her.

“Just get some sleep, Granger,” he breathed.

The sofa was stiff. The velvet cold beneath her. And she lay awake for a very long time, clutching a soft grey blanket tightly around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: A brief description of undead animals, so if that's not your vibe then skip the paragraph that starts "She held her wand..."


	13. Chapter 13

Taxidermy beasts glared down from the walls of Theodore Nott, Sr.’s trophy room. Polished wooden cases with glass fronts housed goblin wrought daggers and gilded goblets encrusted with emeralds. It was the most ostentatious room by far, with sparkling marble floors and carved columns. A grand staircase spiraling down to a second floor. A glass dome above it all.

Hermione observed the stairs beside a quiet Draco. They’d had a somewhat strained morning tea with a quick fry up before the ornate door appeared. Once again the task seemed to involve curing the treasures within of dark magic.

“Would you—do you want me to teach you?” She had asked, after she cast her first runic detection spell. Pulling the symbols from a particularly nasty looking scepter.

“Your runes?”

She nodded, isolating the forgetfulness curse on the massive sapphire at the top from the stinging curse along the golden rod. It took her a few minutes but it was one of the easier curses she’d detected on the top floor. And that was how she taught Draco Malfoy her complicated bit of runic magic for determining the root of a curse. They’d both taken Ancient Runes, though Gryffindors were paired with Hufflepuffs so they hadn’t been in the same class. He’d scored highly on his N.E.W.T., so she knew he’d get the hang of it.

“Thought it was a Granger secret,” he said. And he wasn’t wrong. She’d never so much as performed the magic in front of anyone else in her department. When she was developing it she’d tried to talk to Ron about it but he was always agitated by runes. _Why would I want to learn a dead language?_ He’d say, and _They all look like scribbles to me, Hermione. I’m proud of you and everything but I don’t understand it._ He never did.

“You’ll have to promise not to share it with anyone.”

“Don’t worry, Granger, none of my friends hold much interest in your line of work. Theo prefers protection spells and wards. Blaise prefers his vineyards and Pansy prefers telling me to shut up.”

“There’s a name I haven’t heard in years,” she said. “Though I occasionally read her articles in the _Prophet_. Quite scathing reviews of the latest Celestina Warbeck album.”

“Yes, there isn’t an opinion Pansy won’t share. She’s well-suited to the job. Took quite a while for them to bring her on staff. Given everything her father did during the war.”

She knew his words were tinged with bitterness, that his friend had to work twice as hard to be hired just because of her father. Theo didn’t work, as far as she knew. And Draco’s position was not entirely due to her own interference. Wizarding Britain held onto its grudges. Even after Harry Potter himself publicly advocated for second chances.

“Right. Let’s get on with your lesson then,” she said, adopting a tone reminiscent of their former Transfiguration teacher. “So the basics of a dark detection spell—”

“Granger, I do work for the auror department. I know the detection spells you use and the theory behind them. Skip ahead.”

For the first time in what felt like days he gave her a half smile. The wry turn of his lips, just the tiniest bit, was enough to make her blush. Without whatever hair potions he normally used his hair was somewhat wavy, and she knew it felt like silk between her fingers. Between that and the way he’d seemed warmer now, she was easily distracted.

“Yes. Right. It’s easier than it seems, I think. First you add to the incantation. _Obscuras ostento_. That accounts for what the runic spell will ultimately do for us, locating the root of the dark magic. And then instead of the basic wand movement you want to do a sort of…” She demonstrated, feeling foolish, but he watched her intently. Sharp grey eyes absorbing her movements. “Almost like a conductor. It’s a pulling motion and then a sort of…swoosh? It might feel silly—”

He copied her movements with precision, trailing his wand just so. The light wood a contrast to the mahogany around them.

“Is that a new wand?”

Draco hummed, turning to her. She liked when he did that. Caught up in his thoughts until she repeated herself. Not because he wasn’t paying attention to her, as was so often the case with her friends, but because he was focused.

“It was my grandfather’s,” he said. Twirling it between his fingers. “Works well enough but I do miss the one Potter took. The one that chose me.”

“He didn’t give it back? I thought after he fixed his own wand that he would.”

“It was lost in the battle,” he said, shaking his head. “He told me after. Apologized for it and gave me the splintered handle. I didn’t think Mr. Ollivander would sell me a new one so I nipped this from our vault.”

“But he can’t deny your business. That wouldn’t be right.”

“He wouldn’t be the first. And after what he went through at my…I’m not really looking to find out just yet. This wand is fine.”

There was a slight sag to his stiff posture, and he’d resumed practicing the wand movements. Ready to move on. Hermione dropped the subject. She spent a little time on the theory behind her invented spell, and he asked the occasional question. Particularly interested in how she developed the combination of incantation and wand movement, which, of course, was after extensive reading.

The practical exam was for a spyglass with a temporary blindness curse. He pulled the runes from it with ease, isolating the root, then cleansing the dark magic from the brass object. Next she coached him through a forgetfulness charm on a chess set, the pieces carved of jade and red coral. After three more simple curses she let him assist with a complex series applied to a pair of ornamental swords on the wall. They’d leapt from their holders and began fighting one another until Hermione huffed in exasperation and put a stop to it. There was a sticking charm on the hilts, and a slicing hex on the blades. A cut from one of the swords would reopen once healed. But he was able to counter both spells, leaving Muggle weapons behind.

Having another competent curse breaker working beside her made the top floor go rather quickly. It was essentially a mezzanine, looking over the larger, more prized objects of the collection. The spiral stairs were impressive in their own right. Dark, carved bannisters and wide steps. A way to make a grand entrance, certainly. For parties to show off one’s collection.

At the bottom of the stairs, waiting to greet them, was a massive skull. The bones were obsidian, gleaming in the sunlight from the large glass dome high above. Some of the dragon’s teeth were nearly the length of her forearm and sharp as the swords they’d just cured. Nestled in the sockets were jeweled replicas of eyes, made of thousands of perfectly cut gems. Amethysts ranging from pale lavender to aubergine so dark it was nearly as black as the bones. It was beautiful and arresting, like so many things in Nott Manor.

There were hundreds of objects the Ministry would be interested in recovering once the house was set back to rights. Hermione made mental notes of the most useful things, like the collection of illegally made portkeys they’d found in a cabinet. And the mounted manticore stinger, of course. Nearly all of the things in Zahra Nott’s dresser would warrant a second look. The library, of course. And all of the different Guardians. Similar and yet so different. Clever, ancient magic.

“What does that runic sequence tell you?” Draco asked from somewhere above her shoulder. She’d been grappling with a cursed tiara for nearly half an hour. It was one of the last objects in the room that held a dark curse. One that she’d seen more than a few times in her work.

Hermione sighed. “It’s a blood curse. There’s usually a way around activating the curse in order to cleanse the object but this one has been modified. It can only be removed after. I’m trying to determine the extent of it before I activate it.”

“Before you _what_?”

“This is why I don’t tell you about every curse I encounter. There’s no reason to conflate things. I encounter blood curses all the time. They’re common. And you’re here to help if it’s worse than I think it will be once I do activate it.”

There was a split second when she saw his wand from the corner of her eye and she should have elbowed him, at the very least. Because he did something very, very stupid.

The tiara jerked from her levitation spell and flew into his hand like a snitch. The silver setting immediately cut into his palms, sinking in like teeth. She tried to summon it back, to free him from its bite, but he waved her off. In mere moments, he’d disarmed it, pulled its curse, and tossed it to the floor with an echoing _clang_. Droplets of blood fell from his hand to the marble tiles.

“Since when are you an irrational git?” She said, nearing a screech as she snatched his hand and held it up to the light.

“It’s fine,” he said, and she could hear him roll his eyes at her.

“Get the dittany from my bag and hold still.” She checked for any traces of the blood curse. Once bitten, or stabbed or cut by an object housing a blood curse, the curse was likely to transfer to one’s blood. But her diagnostic readings were clear. While she focused on cleaning and healing each of the dozens of cuts, his steady breath helped calm her nerves. The pricking at the corner of her eyes.

“It was specifically a curse on non-magical blood,” he said, the words low. She added a drop of dittany, watching the essence absorb into his skin. “That’s what the combination of _Othala_ and _Mannaz_ typical signify. It’s something the more scholarly Death Eaters used a lot. I’ve seen them before.”

Othala, a rune she saw frequently in seized items from pureblood houses. For heritage and ancestry. Mannaz, for social order. A blood curse for those beneath the ancestral hierarchy. How fitting.

“Still. You shouldn’t have done that,” she said. “It was reckless and you could have lost a lot of blood or worse.” The dittany from his kit worked too efficiently and soon she would have to release his hand. Instead she fussed, just to give herself a few more moments to trace the lines on his palm. Not to look for his future but to feel his present. “You could have been really hurt.”

“If I hadn’t, what would you have done? Pricked your finger on it? Taken on a curse that could harm you? Perhaps irreparably? It was specifically designed for Muggleborns, Granger. By the very people who wanted you eradicated.”

She didn’t have an answer. The look in his eyes told her he knew what she would have done. She ran her thumb over his skin, unmarked thanks to the healing spell he taught her and the dittany, and finally pulled away. Letting her fingers graze his as she did.

“I knew I’d be fine,” he said, but she didn’t believe him. The gentleness in his tone gave it away.

She focused on the final curse in the room — a complicated combination of forgetfulness and a sensory charm that would paint visions of a different location in the eyes of the cursed — on an ornamental helmet. While she waited on her runic roots, wondering which of the levels of the curse would need to be removed first, she asked about his potions.

“The pepper-up drops from earlier seemed to be another of your innovations.”

“Yes. More concentrated, so that when you don’t need a full dose it’s easier to go about your day. I added a few things to eliminate some of the side effects as well,” he replied.

“What made you experiment with it? Pepper-up is easier to buy than brew yourself so I’m curious.”

“I told you I don’t sleep much, so at first it was a way to give myself a boost in the mornings but I hated the steam coming out of my ears. And sometimes I drink a little too much and don’t fancy the hangover.” He chuckled darkly at that. “Figured I’d just test a few versions out and see what worked for what I needed. A more standard brew is still best for an overindulgence of fire whiskey but I’ve managed to remove the steam from that as well. Took a while. Once I had steam out the ears for an entire weekend. Bloody miserable. Nearly went to St. Mungo’s before it finally went away.”

She was impressed by his determination and, she hated to admit, his recklessness. It wasn’t unlike her own. He watched her work, tugging the forgetfulness curse from the helmet’s metal. The sensory charm would take a little longer, and she concentrated on each of the five senses as she worked through the counter curse. A rudimentary sensory charm painted a false picture of one’s environment. A more advanced version incorporated sound and smell, too. The feeling of wind or rain. She didn’t want to take any chances and accounted for all of the senses until what remained was a battle helm, likely stolen from another wizard’s collection.

“Well,” she said, brushing her hands against her jeans. “It’s certainly impressive what you’ve been able to accomplish. Have you thought about submitting your creations for review?”

Draco blinked at her. “I’m the impressive one? After you just dismantled another room full of cursed trinkets in what, two hours? Right.”

They turned back towards the center of the room, beneath the bright morning sun.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

The Hebredian skull whispered, “Get out,” which Draco loudly proclaimed was rather rude, and a double door appeared to send them back to the study. No sooner had that set of doors disappeared then another one replaced it. It was made of frosted glass with silver gilding and a black handle shaped like a dragon’s wing. Carved obsidian, not unlike the skull from the trophy room.

“I like to tinker with things when I’m bored and I don’t really see the point in submitting my work just to have it rejected. I couldn’t find a potion master on the entire continent to take me on as an apprentice, why would any of them want to review my work?” Draco said. With his long arms raised to the ceiling he stretched, cricking his neck with a groan.

“Are you still sore from your injuries? From the statues?” She asked, suddenly concerned that she’d missed something. Itching to cast a diagnostic.

“From that chaise, mainly. Should have considered the thickness of the cushions last night. What do you reckon? Should we get this next one over with?”

Hermione agreed and after rolling her own joints for a moment she squared her shoulders and followed him through the glass door.

* * *

In the courtyard of the Nott estate was a serene oasis from the harsh and traditional lines of the house. It was hidden, tucked into an alcove beneath the upper floors, but open to the air and greenery of the central garden to one side. It was a large, tiled room — beautiful and so different in style from the rest of the house. Draco imagined it was something that Zahra had renovated during her time as Mistress of the manor, especially now that they’d seen her own colorful chambers. Felt the remnants of warmth from her decorative touch in fabrics and photographs. Some of the plants in this area looked like the more tropical greenery she favored. Growing in ceramic pots the color of jewels.

When they were kids, Draco and Theo would play exploding snap on the cool blue tiles. Theo’s father never went in the courtyard. He’d sometimes look out at it from his chambers, but this part of it couldn’t be seen from that side of the house. It was why Theo liked to spend time there, during the rare occasions Draco and his father would visit. His mother never went with them. Narcissa wasn’t exactly fond of Theo’s father, and Draco imagined it was hard to be in the house her friend had died in. And now Draco wondered if it had felt more like a cage to Lady Zahra than a home.

He’d been to a magizoo as a child, winding through the paths of artificial environments to gaze upon beasts in their cages. It had unsettled him, seeing things he’d read about in books and feared held captive like that. Surrounded by forests that weren’t entirely real. In the conservatory he’d thought of it. Of their endless swaths of trees and shrubbery and magical flora. It was all a massive cage, this house. Built to keep them inside. When Granger had pulled from him, seeking something off the path, he’d never been more frightened. Not of something dangerous, like a manticore stalking them from the trees, just out of sight. But of losing her again, like he’d lost her in the library. If she stepped off the path, if she let her fingers slip through his he would lose her. It had hurt just to even think of it for a moment. So he’d curled in upon himself, using occlumency to stop himself from clinging to her tighter. From holding her in his grasp, possessive and giving in to behavior typical of his namesake. Stealing the maiden away and hiding her in his cave. The finest prize only for him. But she wasn’t something to hoard and protect. She was a witch, powerful and capable of handling herself. So he’d pushed her away before she could do the same. And woke regretting ever letting go of her hand.

The Guardian was a mosaic on the wall behind a low reflecting pool. It was a fanciful interpretation — with broken pieces of rainbow-colored tiles as its scales instead of the usual black, but somehow they all shifted and reflected in such a way that it looked realistic. The eyes, of course, were purple. Its tiles cascaded down the wall and into the reflecting pool, where they matched the cool blues and sea foam greens of the floor that Draco stood on beside Granger. The water wasn’t deep and it had unnatural stillness. The surface almost a mirror image of the mosaic dragon above it. The pool came up to his knees. A perfect height to sit and trail your hand through the water, creating whirlpools.

The air was warmer, too, despite being outdoors in November. It felt like a spring day. The scent of roses and freshly mown grass on the breeze. Topiaries and a bubbling fountain took up the courtyard. Each tree trimmed pristine. Every blade of grass perfectly even. The rock paths undisturbed. It was calm, and because of its calmness he was anything but.

“Greetings cherished guests,” the Guardian said. As it spoke its scales rippled, changing color. “You have begun to feel at home and for that your host is grateful. Should you wish to continue your journey you must first take a rest here.” Its voice was hypnotic. Soothing. “Look into the depths of my clear waters for one whole minute. That is all I ask of you. It is quite simple. The easiest task presented to you. If you look, you will be on your way. If you do not, you shall find yourself here for eternity.”

Draco wondered what sort of evil could hide in the water. If it really was as simple as looking. Granger went through numerous detection spells before squaring her shoulders and stepping closer to the water. Wearing her determined face.

“Wait—I should go first,” he said, blocking her path. “In case. I’m the disposable one here, remember.” He took off the satchel and tried to hand it to her but she waved him off.

“Malfoy, it’s fine. Just time me. And maybe keep the portkey in hand, just in case.” Before he could physically restrain the stubborn witch she’d stepped onto the tile directly across from the Guardian. Then, she tilted her face, looking down into the water at her own reflection without hesitating.

He cast a timing spelling and slipped the teaspoon from Robards into his pocket, shouldering the bag once more. With each second that passed he felt himself tense. Shoulder blades tight under the weight. While she watched her reflection, completely still, he watched her.

There was fear in her eyes, though her face remained mostly neutral. A slight twitch in her jaw. Forty seconds. Draco’s grip on his wand tightened. Hating the yew wood. It was too light in color. Too rigid. Too similar to another wand he’d seen deal in death. Thirty seconds. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. Fifteen seconds. A near silent whimper behind her lips. Ten seconds. He watched her face. Seven seconds. The agony in her creased brow. Five seconds. He stepped closer. Three seconds.

Her hand reached out to touch the surface the moment she collapsed to the ground.

“Granger!” He called, pulling her back before she could reach the water. There was something wrong with her. She kept looking at the water, twisting against him. Keeping her eyes on whatever it was she saw there.

“Look at me,” he said, more calmly. “Don’t look there — look at me. Granger.”

He tried shaking her, then he wound his hand around her head, turning her face towards him, though her eyes remained fixed on their reflection. “Look at me,” he said again, cupping her cheek. Brushing the tracks of tears aside. “ _Hermione_.”

At last she trailed her eyes from the water to his face and he felt himself sag with relief. Smoothing her hair behind her ear.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He cast a diagnostic spell but nothing was amiss. She turned out of his grasp and crossed her arms over her middle. “Can you speak?”

She was quiet for a moment and nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Granger, you were lost—”

“It’s fine,” she said, hiding behind a watery smile. Wiping her tears away. “You should probably prepare yourself. With occlumency. Whatever kind you had to do for— for the worst things. You should…just prepare yourself.”

“Granger, what did you see?”

“Memories, mainly. The things I have nightmares about. It’s—I’m fine,” she repeated and rubbed her arms, almost hugging herself. Holding herself together.

“You don’t seem fine to me,” he said quietly. He handed her the satchel and she held it against her chest, like a cherished book. Then he pulled the teaspoon from his pocket and gave that to her as well.

“Draco, just take your turn so that we can leave. It’s not—you’re not—I need a minute, is all.”

He didn’t believe her. There was a haunted look to her that wasn’t there before. But he knew not to pry, not now. So he closed his eyes and reached for a different method of occlumency. One that he hadn’t practiced in a while. Not his mother’s soothing waters. But the walls that his aunt insisted he build and reinforce. Until everything was an impenetrable fortress. He wasn’t as good at it as he was with Severus’s meditating and his mother’s peaceful approach to the art of guarding the treasures of one’s mind. But when he needed to, he could call on the bricks and mortar. He’d had enough practice.

She’d been a punishing teacher with limited patience and a penchant for stinging hexes if he made the smallest mistakes. In occlumency and his other, less savory lessons. The ones that he dreaded but the Dark Lord demanded. That his father demanded and his mother pretended not to know about. Tucked away in the darker parts of the guest wing. The occlumency was supposed to protect him from his teachers. It mainly protected him from his family and their distinguished guests.

Bellatrix wielded her wand like a whip, snapping hexes from across rooms. Legilimency was a specialty of hers, learned from the Dark Lord himself. The feeling of it like little shocks to his synapses whenever she needled her way into his mind. Searching for what would hurt the most. Certain things had to be kept away from her. But certain things would slip through, and then she would have fuel for her curses and cruelty. So he’d build stronger walls. Create larger waves to wash the rest away. Focusing his mind until it was a blank slate. Committed to the Dark Lord’s cause. Even if it was just for show.

When he opened his eyes he was in a tiled half room, open to the air yet covered. In front of him was a reflecting pool and colorful tiles. A young woman with curly hair stood beside him, but he ignored her stare. The pool called to him. It was his task. That was what he needed to do. Look into the water. For sixty seconds. And then he would be done. He stood in front of the mosaic dragon and looked down at the water. Into his own grey eyes mirrored back at him.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. His aunt’s face, contorted in glee. One of the manor’s peacocks nipping at his toddler heels. Nine years old and his grandfather dying, coughing up phlegm and bile from his bed. The smell overwhelming. Falling off his broom in a quidditch match. A hippogriff scratching his arm. Learning that Katie Bell had been cursed. Running from the Great Hall. Laying on the floor of a bathroom, surrounded by his own blood. Dumbledore, frail but not dead, offering him safe haven. Death Eaters entering the school, his school, with wands drawn. Running from his failure. Mr. Ollivander, skin and bones in the dungeons of the Manor. A werewolf’s howl at the full moon from deep in the guest wing. Luna Lovegood’s dreamy expression beneath a blackened eye. A Death Eater, swearing from the floor as the cruciatus cracked his bones. The curse coming from his own mouth. Running from his cowardice.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. Blood trickling from carved letters on her arm. Screaming in his drawing room. While his aunt grinned at him. Hogwarts in flames. A battle surrounding him. A damp holding cell in Azkaban. A spiked defendant’s stand during a lengthy trial. Taunts on street corners and in the atrium at the Ministry. Trapped in a house. More screams. A forest troll towering over her. A giant statue, holding him by the throat. Running through a library maze. Looking for someone. A twisted path through rotting trees. Losing someone.

A girl on a polished wood floor, screaming. Writhing and screaming. His aunt’s expression as she pressed the knife into the girl’s skin. A word he didn’t use anymore forever marking her. The look in her eyes before the next _crucio_ hit her. Hermione’s screams echoed through the weak spots in the masonry over and over and over. Until they crumbled and all that was left was him.

Granger called his name and he looked away from the water. Keeping his eyes on the pale blue tiles beneath his feet. One of her hands reached for him then fell to her side. He dragged his hands over his face. Pressing against his occipital bones with the heel of his hands. Took a few breaths through his nose and let the crumbled walls in his mind wash away on a gentle wave. Until he couldn’t see the look on his aunt’s face any longer. The screams would always be there, no matter how hard he tried to forget them.

When at last he picked up his head, she was watching him. And he saw himself reflected in her hollow brown eyes. They looked at each other in silence. He wished she would throw herself into his arms again. Wrap herself so completely around him that he could bury his face in the crook of her neck, nestled against her hair. Holding her tightly against his chest. Breathing in the relief of her touch.

Instead she opened the door that reappeared and went back to the study. Without a word.

His wand lay on the floor and as he bent to pick it up he skimmed his hand over the surface of the water, not touching it, but tempted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big burst of gratitude to inky_pens for her Latin expertise and helping me create the incantation for the spell Hermione invented.
> 
> A note on runes — the runes referenced throughout this story are the Elder Futhark runes.


	14. Chapter 14

Draco pulled his potions kit from his pocket and enlarged it, plucking a few vials out. Then he added a drop of calming draught to their tea cups along with a drop of his pepper-up variant. “It will help us to settle after that last room. Keep us focused and alert,” he’d said. Not the easiest thing after having to relive their worst moments. Even if it was only for a minute.

But it had felt like much longer, as it was happening. Like she was back on the floor beneath Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand. With a dagger pressing into the soft flesh of her forearm. And then she was at the house on Gloucester Lane, training her own wand on her mother. Stealing every memory of herself from the woman who raised her and wiped her tears when she was sad while her horrified father begged her to stop. And then she did the same to him. The anguish on his face worse than anything she’d seen, and she’d seen death by then. It felt endless, moving from the fearful moments of childhood, when she’d shown magic but didn’t understand it and felt all alone. Through the dangers of her time at Hogwarts, with basilisks and dementors. Hunting horcruxes. And Draco thrown to the floor, bleeding in the rubble. Being lost in the Nott library, with its walls closing in. And so many other memories she couldn’t recall them all.

They’d needed to rest afterwards. To collect their thoughts and emotions. Another time she longed for the occluding magic that escaped her skill. Instead she could make a pot of tea and try to focus. Like she’d always been able to with her studies, or with a particularly difficult task at work. She stirred her cup again, sipping the peppermint tea and letting the potions start to take effect. It was hard for her to know what to do or say. Everything sounded trite in her head. Echoes of things people had said to her when she was hurting. _It will be okay_ and _You’ll get through it_ and _If you ever need to talk_. She certainly didn’t want to share what she’d seen so why would he?

There was a slope to his shoulders now, relaxed into the sofa as he was. An ankle over a knee. But his eyes no longer held the coldness of occlumency. They were far away, somewhere she’d never been and perhaps would never go. But she felt as though she understood it anyway.

“Do you have any theories,” he asked, breaking the silence, “about Nott’s potion?”

Hermione chewed the corner of her lip and shook her head. “Not really. Robards and the auror department have spent the last few years tracking down every Death Eater and sympathizer. They’ve missed someone, clearly. At least that’s what Harry thinks.”

Draco steepled his fingers, resting the tips against his lips. Staring hard at the fire. “It would have to be someone with connections. Means of distribution.”

“So someone wealthy, then.”

“Galleons always help but I meant more that it’s someone calculating. Someone who avoided suspicion after the war. Someone smart.”

No one came to mind, not that she knew much about the larger network Voldemort operated with. Most of what she knew was from reports in the _Prophet_ or from talking with Harry and Ron. The latter had a lot of opinions on their green and silver classmates. “Is it a legacy thing, do you think?” She asked. “Someone trying to finish what their parents started?”

The skin beneath his eye quivered, wincing, but he blinked it away. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s multiple persons working together.”

“Who are some of the…inheriting heirs?”

“Other than me and Theo?” He asked, and she nodded. “Not many. Having a family wasn’t a priority for most. There’s Goyle, but we both know he isn’t smart enough. Death Eater adjacent there’s Pansy, but she hates her parents.”

Hermione thought harder, going back through the files Harry had allowed her to search through when she’d started at the Ministry. “What about someone older than us but still younger and out for glory? Who was your quidditch captain, the one with the…”

“Horrid teeth? That was Marcus Flint.” Draco vanished his teacup. “Brilliant at potions but I expect he had a hard time finding an apprenticeship with his low marks. Last I heard he works for some stationery supplier, bottling inks or something.”

“Adrian Pucey? One of the Greengrass girls?”

He shook his head. “Adrian married a Ravenclaw half-blood and they moved to the States. The Greengrasses are hoping to salvage their family reputation and secure advantageous marriages. Mass distribution of poison would negate that.”

Hermione huffed a laugh. The Greengrass girls were beautiful, to be sure, but other than sharing a few classes with Daphne, who was quiet and close with Pansy, she didn’t know much about them. It seemed he did. “You know, I would have never pegged you for a gossip. How do you know all of this?”

“Well, Granger, Goyle was essentially my bodyguard for years—”

“Not _him_. The others.”

“Pansy and I are friends still. I ran into Flint at an apothecary a few months ago, we were both buying valerian root. I read the announcement for Pucey in the _Prophet_. You’re good at research, I’m surprised you don’t keep tabs on the Slytherins.”

She felt the potions start to take effect. Warming her. And perhaps they helped lower her inhibitions, too, because she said, “No, just you.”

And his eyes gleamed a little when he said, “Quite a lot of work, I imagine.”

“I didn’t realize you were friends with Daphne Greengrass,” Hermione said, keeping them on track.

“Not particularly, no. But before the war her father and my father had discussed a betrothal with her sister, Astoria, so I had a lunch with her and our mothers just a few weeks ago.”

The warmth she’d felt turned cold and she wished she’d controlled herself before snapping her eyes to his. “A betrothal? Does that—are you marrying this girl?”

And he laughed, a hand over his stomach. “Merlin, no. Someone like me doesn’t help a reputation, first of all, and second…I don’t much see the point in marrying for anything other than love.” He cleared his throat. “If it exists for someone like me. Marriage has always been to fulfill my duty as heir or however my father puts it. That’s not really enough for me. Even with all the pressure on my and my ancestral bloodlines and all that rot. My father resents our current social standing but if I’m being honest there’s relief. In this one area, at least.”

The faint bit of fear that settled over her at the thought of him being engaged dissipated while he talked quickly, sharing things she hadn’t thought he would. She finished her tea, feeling as comfortable as if she’d taken a long nap. Better than that, her mind felt clearer. The memories had settled back into their corners. Never gone for good, but just out of reach. Where she preferred to keep them. And where she now tucked the knowledge that he’d shared. Ancestral lines weren’t important to him anymore.

“So this potion…poison, I suppose we should call it, only affects Muggleborns. Causes a sort of magical paralysis, I believe Robards said.”

“The few patients at Saint Mungo’s were unconscious. There was also a draining of the magical signature which is making it difficult for the healers to wake them. That’s the last update they told me before we came here,” Draco said.

As they discussed theories on the contents of the potion, and which ingredients caused paralysis and comas, a creaking noise announced the next door.

“Beginning to think this house listens to us,” she said.

“Watches us, too,” he murmured, trailing his hand over the back of the sofa while Hermione blushed at the memory of climbing onto his lap to kiss him more just a day ago. Then he stood in an elegant motion and peered at the wall.

The door was similar to some of the others they’d encountered. Dark wood, with a red undertone. Golden details. An ornate handle.

Soft music floated out of the bottom of the door, an enticing melody that had them moving towards it. The day had been long, but it stood to reason that they might as well get this next room over with. It took little convincing for either of them to ready their wands.

“Wait,” Hermione said, putting out a hand to stall Draco’s steps. “I don’t trust the music.”

“We can’t trust anything in this house, Granger. That’s known.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant that it is probably a pied piper curse. If we follow the sound, it will only permeate through our minds and place us in a sort of fugue state or hundred year sleep or something just as horrid. The entire room is likely cursed.”

Draco opened her satchel and began rummaging, ruining her careful organization. Again. “Right. Have you got ear muffs in here?”

“No but I do have an idea.” She summoned a fat beeswax candle, another gift from Neville. After lighting it with the tip of her wand she began to collect thick drops of melting wax and roll them into spheres.

“Candlestick maker? That’s a Muggle thing isn’t it?”

“What? Yes, I suppose but that’s not what I’m doing,” she replied. When she had four spheres of wax she blew out the candle, holding her hair back from the flame. “Here — take two of these. You can mold them to fit in your ear. Like ear plugs.”

She fashioned her own, pleased at how well they blocked sound. Draco frowned, his brows pinched together as he looked from the wax spheres in his hands to her ears and back before figuring it out. Another Muggle thing, apparently.

They couldn’t hear each other so they communicated with raised eye brows and other gestures, like playful smirks. While he opened the door, Hermione kept her wand ready for defensive spells. But the only thing that greeted them on the other side was a music room, full of instruments and some settees and chairs. Everything was covered in a layer of dust and cobwebs. The upholstery moth-eaten. The air stale.

And there, in front of a tall window, was a gilded harp. Its strings moved on their own. The source of the music they’d heard before.

Hermione pointed at it and Draco extended a hand, _after you_ , he mouthed. First she cast a few detection spells throughout the space and then used her runic curse detection on the harp. She’d been right. It contained a powerful sleeping curse woven into the lure of the pied piper curse. It was one that would take her a while to work through. She sighed and rolled up her sleeves.

While she worked on pulling the sleeping curse from each of the harp’s forty-seven strings, she saw Draco casting her detection spell throughout the room. In between her own task she recognized the runic symbols for some minor curses. More of the same that they’d encountered throughout the manor. Forgetfulness curses and sensory curses. Things he could handle without her, so he did. Until he had nothing left to do but wait.

She could feel him standing just beside her. Watching as she removed the last bit of the curse from the harp’s frame.

“Okay then. What next?” Hermione said, before remembering her ear plugs. As one final precaution she placed the harp under a stasis charm before removing them. Everything was quiet. Draco removed his own ear plugs. She repeated her question.

“I think that was all of it. Nothing else lit up the detection spells.”

A rattle shook an old cabinet. Hermione trained her wand at it and after a nod from Draco opened it. The swirls of a boggart escaped from its depths. The viscous trails of ether hiding its true form. Perhaps it was on instinct that Draco pushed her behind him, and while she was a little offended by the assumption that she couldn’t handle something as simple as a boggart she was also touched by the gallantry.

It had been years since she’d seen one. And it was safe to assume its form would no longer be a stern transfiguration professor announcing that she’d failed all of her classes and brought shame to her House and Muggleborns everywhere. She had worse things to fear.

The boggart faced him, swirling in its wisps until taking corporeal form. Black, wiry curls piled atop a pale face with dark eyes and a cruel twist of a mouth. Garish black robes that ironically reminded Hermione of Muggle costumes for evil witches. A wand she’d never forgotten, hooked like a talon and sharp at the end. It had left a tiny fleck of a scar beneath her chin when she’d been threatened with it. Before she’d been tortured. Her heart rate increased as the boggart Bellatrix Lestrange advanced slowly.

“The Dark Lord is displeased, Draco,” it said, imitating her raspy voice. “Dumbledore is nearly as good an Occlumens as he is. Your progress is too slow, especially for a wizard with Black blood. You cannot return to that school until you succeed.”

The boggart was taunting him about his occlumency lessons. Hermione stood beside Draco, turning to see him holding his wand level, eyes hard as they focused on the false Bellatrix. Jaw tight.

“I’ve seen the depths of your weak mind. Watched you fail to cast the _cruciatus_ too many times,” it went on. “Pathetic, really. I’ve told my sister she raised you to be soft. Maybe you just need the right leverage.”

He hadn’t moved, hadn’t begun to cast the banishing spell they’d learned in third year to disperse the creature. “Draco,” Hermione said. He flicked his eyes to her and back to the boggart, angling her behind him. As if he knew she was seconds away from stepping in front of him. Of taking the boggart for herself. Even if she worried that its form wouldn’t change, at least the things it said might.

“Perhaps it’s time I found your precious Mudblood,” the boggart Bellatrix said, grinning. “How she would scream so pretty for me when I—”

“ _Riddikulus_!” Draco shouted, slashing his wand at the boggart. The magic cracked and the wiry black hair turned into an overturned plate of spaghetti bolognese. The garish clothes lengthened, tripping it until it tumbled to the ground.

Laughter sped up the process of defeating a boggart but it was hard for Hermione to think of anything but what it had said. The way he’d instantly surged forward to stop its talking.

Draco repeated the spell, chasing the creature to the corner of the room with a forced chuckle of laughter until it disappeared in a puff of smoke. Boggarts couldn’t tell the difference between real laughter and a facade.

The dust in the room settled back into the crevices and everything was quiet.

Instead of looking at her, Draco moved around the room, waiting for something else to emerge. She poked around, checking the mangled drapes for doxies but nothing else came. All of the instruments were clean of curses and dark magic. But the way out hadn’t appeared to them and neither had the Guardian. There was a large landscape painting over the piano, big enough for a dragon’s wings.

“Who did she mean?” Hermione said softly.

He took a deep breath and exhaled on a sigh. “You know exactly who she meant.”

“But…why?”

“Because she could see. The Dark Lord himself trained her in legilimency and I wasn’t strong enough to keep her out of my mind when she first arrived from Azkaban. After fifth year.”

“But,” she started, pulling her lip between her teeth, “but that would mean you thought of me and—”

“Of course I thought of you, Granger, you were everything I was taught to hate. And yet you had the best marks and the respect of your peers. Bloody international quidditch star on your arm and a Ministry job waiting for you. And you were—” He paused and ground his teeth. “And then you were missing for an entire year and top of the Dark Lord’s wanted list. Do you know how many girls Snatchers brought in, hoping it was Potter’s...friend? I had to see them all. None of them were you. Until one day it was.”

Draco sat at the piano and opened the hatch.

“And they didn’t need me to say who it was because she knew you.”

The instrument was a little out of tune. The keys chipped and cracked in places. He began playing a few notes before settling into a soft sonata.

“My face was in the papers all the time,” Hermione said. “Most wanted Muggleborn.”

Watching him play was intoxicating, and she found herself tiptoeing closer to the instrument.

“This was before that. She knew who you were because of me. She saw you in my thoughts. Before I could keep them all out.”

At first she rested her hand at the top, looking down at the keys. The way his long fingers moved elegantly across them. Of course he could play piano. It was exactly the sort of high class activity befitting the heir of a noble house. He’d probably learned from a young age, something to trot out at parties. _Yes, our son is quite skilled at the piano forte_. She wondered when he’d last played. There was no hesitancy to his movements, but he scrunched his brow a lot, as if he had to dig deep in his memories to find the scraps of melodies.

“Draco, I don’t blame you for what happened to me. You have to know that.”

When he didn’t answer she drifted around the piano, hovering by the bench. There was barely room for her to sit, so instead she rested a knee there. Without removing his hands from the keys he shifted just enough to make room for her. An offer. So she slid onto the seat. Their thighs touched, resting against one another on the wooden bench. Her hands clasped on her lap, keeping her elbows out of the way as he played. Sleeves brushing closer to her then trailing away across the keys. He removed his left hand, his wand arm, and held it in a fist on his thigh. Trilling the notes of a familiar tune with his right.

She’d had lessons as a girl. Before Hogwarts. They weren’t really worth the money, in the end. She never learned to play by ear and she’d never mastered pitch. But she did remember a few notes. With her right hand she touched the keys, adding the low notes. Draco turned to look at her then, hair falling into his eyes with the motion.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you?” The corner of his lip twitched.

Hermione felt herself smile. “I’m not surprised you play. You’re too posh not to. This is about all I remember. It’s been a while since I’ve even seen a piano.”

There was snow outside the enchanted windows, fat flakes twisting on the wind. She wondered why the weather in this room had turned so abruptly to winter. To something cold when she only felt warmth beside her. Another mystery of the magic at Nott Manor. Just that morning the window in the study showed the same blue sky and indirect light it always did.

“It’s been years since I last played,” he said, moving a step down the keyboard, so she shifted as well. “Guess we don’t always forget things we learn when we’re young.”

One of the keys slipped beneath his finger, the sound abrupt. But he kept playing, and she noticed that his jaw was tense. The skin around his eyes tight with focus.

“We unlearn what we don’t need anymore,” she said, “and we keep the things that matter”

He dipped his chin in a nod, but the line of tension remained. After she hit a final note she moved her hand back to her lap. When he began to play a different song she wanted to ease the harshness in his features. Turn it back into the soft smiles and teasing smirks and glances that made the hair at the back of her neck stand up. She placed her hand on his forearm, just above the mark that took so much from them both. The notes stalled and began again, taking her with them.

“You don’t have to punish yourself, Draco. Not for me.” She pressed her fingers against his sleeve, wishing it was skin on skin. Wishing that she could erase the ink with just a touch. Remove everything that it represented. Instead she lifted her hand. “I already forgave you. Maybe it’s time to forgive yourself.”

The notes stopped. He looked at her for a beat too long, like he had been for days. With a kind of yearning. Long enough that she looked away. The exhale wasn’t sharp, exactly. More like a resigned sigh at the end of a long day. He extracted himself from the piano bench, running a hand over his face.

“I can’t keep kissing you, Granger,” he said, stepping around her and into the center of the small room.

“What do you mean?” Hermione replied, twisting in her seat to face him. The mere mention of it set her heart stuttering.

Draco took one step closer, but maintained his careful distance. “I mean that _I_ can’t keep kissing _you_ , I’ve done it twice now and both times you’ve made it clear you wanted to forget it ever happened.”

“What?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me after.”

_She_ wanted to forget? Where did he think that came from when he was the one relieved to wake up alone after the gallery? He was the one hiding behind coldness and occlumency and anger when they walked through the forest of the conservatory. And after, in the study. While she awkwardly endured it. Put on her best _I’m fine_ face. The one she reserved for acquaintances and reporters. “That’s not true,” she said.

“It sure feels true—”

“It’s not.”

He shook his head, a huff pushing through his teeth. They stared at each other, her chest heaving and almost painful from the way her pulse increased and her lungs took quick inhales and exhales. “That’s because you’re always so—and I don’t know how—what do you want me to say? I never say the right thing with you. Tell me what I’m supposed to say. I’m not a bloody legilimens, Draco, I can’t read your mind.”

She swung her legs over the bench and stood. They circled each other from a meter apart. The shadowed room growing smaller with every turn.

“I would have thought you Gryffindors value action,” he said, stopping his steps and ending her own momentum. The rug beneath her feet caught on the tread of her boots and she nearly stumbled. “Thought you were smart…Brightest Witch of our Age my arse,” he muttered under his breath.

“You hit your head the first time—”

“So you do remember that.”

“And the second we were drinking so I just thought that—”

“I wasn’t drunk and neither were you,” he said quietly. “All I could think about was kissing you, so I did.”

The air was heavy with words spoken. With the lingering magic from the harp and curses and the boggart. The echoes of music plucked on piano keys. Hermione couldn’t keep herself from looking at him. Observing in the way he so often observed her. Taking in all the details. Like the rumpled appearance, from days spent battling with a manor that wanted to devour them. The way his hair had a slight wave to it. The straight slope of his nose. His eyes, a grey with the faint overcast of blue, until they’d darkened like storm clouds. Not the ones that held destruction and ruin. The ones you saw in the height of summer, when thunder and rain brought a respite from the heat.

She’d looked too long, and the want that coiled inside of her, like a sleeping dragon, was surely written on her face.

“You can be impulsive, I get it. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if you felt anything like what I’m feeling,” he said, voice low and tinged with something like regret. One of his hands tugged at his hair, leaving it in further disarray. “Let’s just…go.”

He turned and took the first steps away from her, towards the door that had materialized.

And she couldn’t bear it.

“Draco,” she whispered, and reached for his hand. Holding a few of his fingers in her own, pulling herself closer. He watched where their hands connected then looked up, the grey thunderous. Like a summer storm. She hesitated for less than a second, then stepped into him and pressed her lips to his. Pouring the want into her kiss, cradling his jaw in her hand as delicate as the threads between them. In the tapestry woven together between haunted kitchens and labyrinthine libraries and stolen kisses.

Though she could have kissed him for hours she settled for one consuming moment of shared breath. When she pulled away he looked at her, half stunned, with ripened lips and a faint blush to his sharp features.

“You’re right,” she said, keeping a steady grip on his hand. Lacing their fingers. “We should get going.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/xDarkoftheMoon) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/xdarkofthemoon) and in the Department of Fandom Discord. xx Lu
> 
> 🌙 For more Dramione, check out some of my other works:
> 
> 🎶[Notes of Melancholy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27409507/chapters/66993583) is an E-rated Dramione fic about grief and the healing power of piano. _The war is over and Hermione Granger is haunted by loss. She spends her days going through the motions, following routines to keep it together. The sounds of her neighbor's nightly piano playing slowly stitches her broken heart back together. When she musters up the last of her Gryffindor courage to thank them, a familiar face opens the door._
> 
> 🌛 A divination, tea leaves, astrology-themed one shot with alternating present day Hermione and flashback Draco POVs. [The Moon in Gemini](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478921): _In third year Professor Trelawney predicted that Hermione Granger would fall in love with a foe. Specifically, a Gemini. That theirs would be a passionate and intellectual union. What rubbish._
> 
> 🍷 A Halloween-themed oneshot.[Poison & Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293806): _Under a full moon on Halloween night a game of seven minutes in heaven changes things for a certain witch and wizard._
> 
> 🥀 If you happen to be a Reylo-Dramione in need of a crossover fic (alternating POVs!), check out [Death-marked Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26546116/chapters/64710325): _Rey Niima was born cursed. If anyone in the Palpatine line fell in love, they would watch their loved one die in their arms. For Rey, this is merely a minor inconvenience. But for her close friend Hermione Granger, it's a problem that needs solving. A chance encounter with Draco Malfoy leads to a visit from cursebreaker Ben Solo, an American who specializes in legacy curses and ancestral magic. And happens to be a direct descendant of the wizard who cursed Rey's family in the first place._


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